


The Island and the Machine

by Sunnyrea



Category: Lost, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Novel, Original Character(s), Twins, Wordcount: Over 200.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 219,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An island no one can find with healing properties and mystery and it is his destiny. The creation of something to protect us, to find the connections, an A.I. and his destiny to create. Both of them are special, both of them have a purpose and they both need each other more than anything else in the world. </p><p>The twisting and unbelievable lives of twin brothers Benjamin Linus and Harold Finch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day one until forever

**Author's Note:**

> There is going to be a bit of bending of dates and time line simply to make Lost and Person of Interest fit together as well as possible. Harold is going to be a bit younger, the Machine will take less time to make, Ben's dates are vague anyway. But my goal is to try and keep both the time lines on the same track and as close to canon as possible. Character wise, I am going to add people's names to the description as they come along. I know it is going to be a lot.
> 
> So. Been thinking about this for a long time and now I am just going for it! It is going to be a wild ride. I hope anyone who dares to dive into this enjoys it.
> 
> I have also made a fanmix because I'm obsessed: [Listen](http://8tracks.com/sunnyrea/the-island-and-the-machine)

On December 19, 1964 Emily Linus gives birth to a baby boy – not on a road side, no need for rescue, but in a hospital. Her husband Roger stands by her side, holds her hand and looks far more terrified than anyone else in the room. 

Two minutes later Emily Linus gives birth to a second son.

Emily holds the babies, looks at the one and says, “Let’s call him Benjamin.” She turns to her husband. “What do you think?”

Roger does not look at her but stares at the other baby. “And what about him?”

“Ben’s little brother?”

Roger smiles. “Not much littler.” He looks up at his wife. “Harold?”

Emily smiles. “Baby Benny and baby Harry?” They both smile. Emily looks back down at her babies. “Benjamin and Harold, welcome to the family.”

The babies stare up at their parents, quiet and new and the fingers of their small hands touching as if they do not understand being apart.

(In another life both boys grow up without mothers and eventually lose their fathers despite the fact they are alive).

––––––––––––––––

Ben stands on his own and walks across the room the day he turns one year old. 

He and Harold play on the carpet in the living room while Emily washes dishes in the kitchen, keeping her eye on them over the peekaboo. Ben reaches for a toy – a squeaky polar bear – then grips the chair beside them and stands up. He takes a step, another, then carries his polar bear across the room toward the kitchen. Emily glances into the other room, sees just one baby where once there were two, then sees Ben.

“Roger!” She shouts as she shatters a dish on the kitchen floor. “He’s walking!” Emily runs across the linoleum and stops just at the edge as Ben toddles closer. “Oh my baby, come on!” She grins, holding out her hands. “Roger! Get the camera!”

Ben reaches the linoleum and holds up his polar bear to his mother. She takes the toy and Ben sits down at the edge of the carpet. He shifts his baby legs and looks back at his brother.

“Good job, Ben!” Emily coos as she puts the toy down beside him. “You walked! Good job!”

Ben watches Harold, quiet and still. Harold looks back then tips himself forward, hands on the floor and pushes his feet beneath himself.

“Emily, what is it?” Roger says as he comes into the kitchen. “Why were you shouting? I was –”

“Ben walked!” She exclaims. “He walked right over here!”

Harold knocks himself back against the chair for support as he stands himself up with a wobble. Ben makes a small exclamation and smiles. Harold takes one step forward, two, then walks his way across the carpet.

Roger starts to say something to his wife then grips her shoulder. “Harold!”

“What?” She turns and sees Harold on his feet. “He’s… No! I can’t believe…”

She trails off as Harold walks slowly over the carpet then sits down again right in front of Ben. 

“At the same time?” Roger says in confusion.

“It’s their birthday,” Emily replies as if that could explain it.

Ben squeals in joy, fingers gripping the polar bear and tapping Harold’s knee. Harold squeals back, claps his hands over Ben’s and grins.

––––––––––––––––

Ben stares up at a tree in their backyard. The leaves blow in the wind, spots of light blinking on and off with the motion of the leaves. He sees a birds nest appear and disappear.

“Empty,” Harold says.

“No,” Ben replies.

Harold laughs and points to the right. Ben looks and sees a bird sitting on a branch. He turns and looks at Harold. Harold smiles back at him. 

"What are you two looking at?" Their mother asks, suddenly crouched behind them.

The twins point together at the bird on the branch.

"Ah." She smiles and touches their shoulders. "Do you know the name of that bird?" They both look at her and say nothing. She smiles again. "It's a Robin."

"Robin," Ben says and Harold echoes a second later.

"All the birds have names, just like you." Their mother smiles and stands up straight again as she turns away.

Ben looks back up at the tree, the Robin turning its head then suddenly taking off.

“Two?” Ben asks. "For the nest?"

“Maybe.”

Ben makes a small noise. “There has to be.”

“Maybe,” Harold repeats.

Ben looks over at him. “A mom and a dad Robin.”

Harold laughs and he plops down onto the ground. “Maybe not yet.”

Ben drops down beside Harold and keeps watching the tree, the light changing, the leaves moving. He watches the sun shine on the brown twigs expertly stitched together to make the bird nest. He frowns and looks at Harold seated beside him. Harold’s eyes tick to Ben.

“There has to be two,” Ben says.

“Or else why make the nest,” Harold finishes.

They smile at the same time then laugh together. Ben nudges Harold with his shoulder and Harold pushes Ben back. Harold jumps up and runs, Ben a second behind chasing him. They circle around the yard, run around the tree laughing and laughing, catching each other and starting all over again. When they finally collapse into a giggling pile of brown hair and small limbs on the grass the two Robins are sitting together on the branch.

“They match,” Ben says quietly.

“Like us,” Harold replies.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Harold spend every moment together, every minute, every second so every memory is the same. 

They follow each other around the house, Ben trailing Harold to the study and Harold just behind Ben toward the back yard; they walk through doors together, always in the same room. They crawl into each other’s bed at night, Tuesdays in Harold’s and Fridays in Ben’s. When Harold gets sick, Ben is coughing an hour later. When Ben gets a snack, Harold eats half.

They build blanket forts off the back of the couch, two chairs, and six blankets with five pillows inside.

“When we grow up, we should have a moat around our house to protect us from everyone else,” Harold says.

“Or an electric fence, to be sure,” Ben counters. “What if they could swim?”

In school they sneak out of class to find each other, read books sitting on the floor in the library until they are caught. Kindergarten into first grade into second and maybe they do have to spend some time apart, but in class alone when Harold thinks about Winnie the Pooh, the odd bear and his honey, Ben is thinking about Rabbit and his carrots. They walk as far as they can together in the mornings before they have to go to different classrooms then reunite as soon as the bell rings at the end of the day.

“What if we have to live apart one day?” Harold asks.

“We won’t,” Ben replies.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits on the floor of their bedroom with a box of Legos and a half built tower in front of him. He touches the side of his glasses then picks up a small red piece. Harold’s eyes coast over the construction – four rows of the three inch long pieces as the base so far; he could tapper as the building rises or keep a solid, straight form? Does he want to change the design maybe, add an arm out of the side like a crane?

“You’re not building the Empire state Building,” Ben says.

Harold glances over his shoulder slightly where Ben sits with his back against Harold’s. “I could.”

“But do you want to?”

Harold looks back at his half constructed tower – a wide base and then a second inner level and maybe a third not just straight up. “No.”

“Make it different.”

“Varied design.”

Harold feels Ben smile against his back and Ben turns a page in his book. Ben reads quickly, _Piggy wore the remainders of a pair of shorts, his fat body was golden brown, and the glasses still flashed when he looked at anything._ Ben touches the side of his glasses, and imagines himself as Ralph, making fire and hunting beasts and boys at his command.

“'The Lord of the Flies,'” Harold says. 

“You can read it next.”

“You read too fast.” Ben’s eyes tick up from the page and he looks at his bed against the wall. “You’ll miss things.”

Ben turns his head slightly to look at Harold’s shoulder. “I don’t miss anything.”

“No?”

“Do you?”

“No.”

They laugh once. Ben turns back to his book and turns a page, slides his fingers over the soft paper. The words flow over him and he thinks of jungle and danger and no adults.

“You’ll finish it today,” Harold says

“So will you,” Ben replies.

“I’ll call it twin tower.”

Ben giggles and drags his thumb over the edges of the book, flipping pages quickly. “Would we each get our own room?”

“Why?”

Ben bites the edge of his lip and smiles. “You’re right.”

Harold and Ben both adjust their glasses higher up on their noses at the same time.

Ben taps the back of his head lightly against Harold’s and reads, _Ralph turned and smiles involuntarily. Piggy was a bore._ Then Ben looks up again, looks at the white walls of their room and the small shelf above his bed with a row of books across it, a brass bookend shaped like a palm tree.

“What would we do if we were stranded on an island?” Ben asks.

Harold pauses with a Lego in his hand, looks at the white walls of their room and the small shelf above his bed with a row of books across it, a brass bookend shaped like a nautilus.

“Just us?” Harold asks.

“Just us,” Ben says.

Harold puts the Lego down; Ben closes his book. 

“We'd be happy,” they say.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Harold play in the backyard. It is colder, autumn, but neither of them seems to notice despite not wearing any jackets. 

“Be careful up there!” Their mother shouts out the backdoor as she closes it. “Don’t make me regret letting you two do this.”

“We will!” Ben and Harold shout back from where they sit in the tree.

“Dad could help us,” Ben says.

“He wouldn’t,” Harold counters.

Ben nods as he unfolds the piece of paper with Harold’s plan. “So the floor is the first part.” He taps the page with one finger.

“Of course, have to have the floor first for a tree house.”

“Really have to have a tree first.”

Harold looks up at Ben and smiles. “Or a seed?”

Ben laughs once. “Or dirt?”

Harold laughs too. “Okay, so…” Harold places the plank of wood they pulled up with them into the V created by the tree limbs with just a bit of difficulty. 

“I’ll do this end you do that one,” Ben says as he rolls up the paper again and stuffs it into his back pocket.

“Two nails each side; make sure they are all the way down.” Harold hands one hammer to Ben and Ben hands him back two nails.

“Don’t drop any of it.”

“Don’t you.”

They turn away from each other to their separate ends of the plank, balancing their feet on the tree branches around them. 

“We should start at the same time,” Ben says.

“Opposite corners so it doesn’t flip or shift.”

Ben chuckles. “Genius.”

“Yep.”

They count, “one, two, three” then begin hammering a nail each into opposite corners of the plank of wood. They hammer until their nails are flush with the plank and deep into the wood of the tree. Both boys turn back and look at the other. They nod once then turn back again to hammer in the second nails into the other corners. They hit the nails ten times then stop.

“We should stand on it first,” Ben says.

“To test it,” Harold finishes.

They turn around on the branches slowly, Harold breaking off a small twig in the process. Ben raises his eyebrows at Harold but says nothing. They look down at the plank between them. Ben taps it gently with his left foot. It does not move. He looks up at Harold. “So?”

Harold nods his chin at Ben. “Go on.”

“You go on.”

Harold laughs. “Together.” 

Harold reaches out and takes Ben’s free hand. Ben squeezes Harold’s hand and they both step off their tree branches onto the plank of wood. They hold their breath for three seconds then let it out with amused relief when neither they nor the plank goes crashing to the ground.

“We did it!” Harold says.

“Not done yet. One plank is not a tree house.”

“It’s a tree plank.”

“A tree stand.”

Ben and Harold laugh together then Ben hands his hammer to Harold. He takes a step to the middle of the plank then turns, one hand braced against the tree trunk, and reaches backward with his foot to find the ladder.

“We can fit another plank in this space then one around the other side,” Harold says, motioning with his hand around the tree. “We should then put some planks underneath to brace it before we expand out from the tree. Don’t want it falling down.”

“I read your plan,” Ben says as he gets his one foot on the ladder. “Don’t worry.” He then moves his other foot off the plank. “We might need more wood though.” Then he slips.

“Ben!” Harold shouts and tries to grab onto to Ben’s arm.

Ben falls backward, Harold’s hand missing him, staring up at his twin in surprise. Ben’s feet knock the ladder to the left as he falls. Then two seconds later Ben hits the ground with a crunch and both twins scream in pain. Ben clutches his arm with his other hand, moaning and tears running down his face, flat on his back on the grass. Harold holds the same arm still up in the tree and bites his teeth together to keep from crying out as well.

“Mom!” They both shout.

The backdoor swings open a moment later and their mother runs toward Ben on the ground. “Ben! What happened?” She looks up at Harold who has tears down his cheeks now too. “Harold?” She looks down at Ben again, brushing hair out of his face. “What happened?”

“Harold…” Ben says as he looks up at Harold.

Harold swallows and squeezes his fingers over his arm. “Ben…”

“Did you fall?” Their mother asks Ben. 

“I missed the step,” Ben says through the tears, pointing with his uninjured arm toward the fallen ladder beside the base of the tree.

Their mother touches his arm and Ben hisses in pain. “Oh my god, Roger!” She shifts Ben up carefully against her. “Oh my… I think it may be broken, Ben, dear. Roger, get out here!” She looks up at the tree again. “Harold, are you all right?”

“It hurts,” Harold says, still cradling his arm.

She frowns. “Did you… did something hit you?”

“No.”

“Then you’re fine?”

“No, Ben fell!” Harold insists as he scrunches his eyes closed.

"Yes, Ben fell, not you, Harold. What is wrong?"

"What I said; Ben fell!" Harold insists, sniffles, rubs his hand over his arm. "It hurt me too!"

Their mother only stares up at Harold.

“Emily?” Roger calls from inside.

“Out here!” She turns toward the back door of the house. “The boys are…” She glances back up at Harold again then down at Ben. She turns back to the house. “Ben is hurt!”

––––––––––––––––

Harold and Ben sit on top of the work bench in their family’s garage as they watch their father work on an old Ford pickup truck. The family’s station wagon is parked out in the drive way and it is the car they use on most occasions to actually get anywhere. Their father bought the truck used to begin with and, as their mother tells it, it only ran for two years before breaking down for good. For some reason their father kept the car and fiddles with it now and then, takes out pieces, tightens bolts, adds oil and overall does not really change much. Ben thinks it mostly takes up space in the garage. Harold thinks their father just wants to play at being a mechanic.

“One day you boys will learn how to fix cars like this.”

“By not fixing them?” Ben says so their father cannot hear.

Harold smiles.

Their father peeks out from under the hood for a moment. “It’s an important skill.” He disappears back under the gray-brown hood. “You two should both learn this.”

“I’ve read about it,” Ben says.

“I’ve tried it,” Harold says.

They look over at each other then back to their father, their legs swinging in time together off the edge of the bench. Their father does not appear to have heard them. A minute later, he stands up straight and wipes his hands off on a rag though the rag appears dirtier than his hands. He blows out a breath then looks at his watch.

“Shit.” He toss the rag to the side, glances at the boys then bites his teeth together. “I mean…” He shakes his head. “Late for that inter…” He grumbles then rushes past them and through the door into the house.

Ben and Harold look at the door way. They hear their father yelling something to their mother about ‘time’ and ‘have to go now.’ She yells something back about ‘but groceries’ and ‘if you want to starve.’ A minute later both their parents come out through the garage door.

“We have to go out for a few hours,” their mother says as the pair rush by. She turns and walks backwards a few steps as their father unlocks the car door of the station wagon. “I’m trusting you boys to be good while we’re out.”

“We will,” they say together.

“Just don’t burn the house down!” Their father snaps as he closes the driver side door.

Their mother waves once then gets into the passenger seat as their father starts the car. Then the car pulls out and drives away down the street into the sunlight. Harold turns left to Ben beside him. Ben raises his eyebrows back at Harold. Harold’s eyes tick to the trunk with its hood still open. He jumps down off the bench and walks around to the front of the car, rising up to his tip toes to see inside to the engine.

“You could fix it.”

Harold shifts back onto his heels and looks at Ben. “Why?”

“Why not?”

Harold clicks his teeth then looks at the truck again. “I would need new parts to fix it.”

“Hmm.” Ben rocks his head from side to side for a moment. “Can’t fix it without them?”

“No.” Harold crosses his arms with a thoughtful expression on his face. “But…”

When their mother and father arrive home several hours later the entire engine of the truck sits in pieces lined up carefully in rows and columns on the concrete in front of the truck. Their mother walks up cautiously to the engine pieces with a bag of groceries in her arms. She frowns and looks up at Harold standing on one side of the truck then to Ben on the other. Their father stares in shock, his face growing red.

“What’s this?” Their mother says at the same time their father yells. “What the hell did you do?”

Their mother looks sharply at their father and the twins stiffen in surprise. Their father stares at them for a moment then points at the engine parts with his hand holding the car keys. “What the hell did you do?”

“I wanted to…” Harold starts.

“I took it apart,” Ben cuts off Harold, side stepping over next to him.

“What?” Their father snaps.

“I took it apart.”

“You took the whole engine apart?” Their mother asks looking impressed.

“Well…” Ben glances at Harold quickly.

“You took it apart?” Their father says with a far different tone than their mother.

“I thought,” Ben says, his voice getting quieter as he speaks, “since you were always fiddling with it, why not start from the beginning?”

“You don’t take an engine apart!” Their father shouts and walks closer. “How in the hell am I going to put the whole thing back together?”

“I can put it back together!” Harold insists suddenly.

Ben looks sharply at Harold then they both look at their mother. She is smiling. Their father makes a loud angry huff that sounds more like a growl.

“This is unbelievable.” He points at Harold. “You can’t do something like this!”

Harold looks down at the engine parts then up again at their father. “If they don’t want you to get in they should build it better.”

Their father just stares at Harold.

“I think it’s wonderful, dear,” their mother says to Harold.

He grins with pride at her as Ben smiles at Harold.

“No one asked you!” Their father shouts at their mother. Then he points at the boys. “You are both grounded!” Then he turns and stalks into the house.

The three of them still standing outside watch the front door for a moment, then the boys turn to look at their mother. Her expression is troubled. Then she turns to them and her smile appears.

“It’s all right, boys. That was a very clever thing you did, Harold, though you should not have done it nor you let him, Ben.” They both nod dejectedly. Their mother smiles again then leans closer and whispers. “I’m proud of you.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Harold sit side by side at the breakfast table on a Wednesday morning. Harold has a bowl of cheerios in front of him and Ben has a bowl of raisin bran. Ben’s glass of orange juice is only half full and Harold’s glass is empty. Neither of them are eating anymore.

Across the table and through the doorway in the kitchen their parents shout at each other.

“You’ve only worked there for four months!”

“It’s a shit job anyway, why should I care if they fire me?”

“Because of us you should care!” Their mother spreads her arms wide indicating the room. “We need money to live!”

“I can get another job; I don’t need you to tell me about money!”

“Oh yes, another job, another you’ll just lose in four months, again?” Their mother stops and breathes in deeply. “I just mean that you can’t keep stopping and starting like this.”

“I am not doing that, its…”

“It’s frightening,” She hisses. “We need stability. Everyone has to work, Roger, you’re not special. You don’t get a pass because you think you’re better somehow.”

“I am better than selling radios and televisions.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that if it makes you –”

“I should be owning the store not –”

She huffs. "I don’t know how you would do as a manager –”

“Shut the hell up, Emily!”

Their mother throws her hands up then turns to the sink, putting her hands on the edge and leaning over. She shakes her head and taps her foot. Behind her their father paces back and forth across the linoleum. He keeps shooting looks at her back each time he passes by as if she could still see him.

“You have no right to say anything,” he mutters. “I don’t see you earning money for this family so you can’t be bitching at me.”

Suddenly their mother whirls around. “Oh? Oh really? Well maybe I’ll go get a job then if you can’t be bothered to support your family!”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Oh yes, because women never work.”

“You don’t have to get sarcastic, you know what I meant!” He waves an angry hand at her

“What else can I do because you won’t listen to me?” She huffs and breathes heavily for a moment. Then she runs a hand over her face. “Roger, please, you need a stable job. Something we can live on all the time.”

“Enough, Emily.”

“Roger, I don’t want to have to keep worrying that you’re suddenly going to be unemployed again and I have to pick money out of the air.”

“I said, enough!”

Their mother fists her hands in her hair and whispers. “I just can’t believe you were fired again.”

“I said I will get a new job if you would just get the hell off my back!” Their father shouts right in her face.

Their mother does not back down. “I am just trying to help you, all right?” She clenches her jaw. “Maybe you need a push.” 

Their father frowns deeply then turns out of her personal space and walks away, out of sight of the doorway. “Maybe one day I won’t, Emily, and we can all die in the street together.”

“You’re being ridiculous!”

“You’re being a bitch!”

In the other room, seated at the table, Ben and Harold hold hands tightly under the table.

––––––––––––––––

Their parents take Ben and Harold to Seattle. They had planned on Portland, closer to home, they could visit the zoo. However, at the last minute, they decided on Seattle instead. They visit Pike Place Market - all the food stands, small specialty shops and the men throwing fish. Their mother buys green tea and lets the boys pick out fresh fruit. Their father buys some fish and catches it in the air from the salesman after they wrap it up in paper. 

“Can we throw the fish?” Harold asks.

“No,” their father says.

“You got to throw it,” Ben insists.

“No, I caught it.”

Their mother buys a pair of handmade earrings, deep red so they easily show in her blond hair. Their father buys an overpriced bottle of whiskey, fancy label hidden by a brown bag. Harold and Ben buy a hardback copy of 'Treasure Island' and take turns holding the bag.

The four of them take an elevator to the top of the space needle to see Seattle from above. Harold and Ben lean against the glass looking out and down and everywhere around them. Harold plots angles from the glass to the ground, an arc from the top to the water, calculates distance to the buildings below.

“How long did it take to build this?” he asks.

Ben estimates people in each building, people in the city, imagines how far the boats have come to get to this harbor.

“Where do the boats go?”

Their mother stands beside Ben as they look out over the city while their father stands on the other end beside Harold. Both boys notice how their parents do not touch the entire trip.

Back on solid ground they walk down to Elliott Bay. Their mother buys them ice cream and talks about museums they could visit. 

“There is the art museum,” their mother says from beside Harold.

“Doubt they’d want to see that,” their father says from beside Ben.

“Or the Museum of Flight?”

Their father makes a noncommittal noise.

Ben and Harold, however, look out at the Puget Sound beside them as they walk; sea air and gentle waves and sail boats. Ben imagines captaining a ship, his hands on the helm and Harold imagines navigating, leading the two of them to their own oasis. They look at each other, hands entwined, and feel the ocean calling though neither one knows why.

––––––––––––––––

At school Ben and Harold are always in different classes. The twins suppose that siblings are always split up or perhaps twins in a classroom together would be too much for the teachers or perhaps there is no reason at all. 

Harold sits in the back, quiet and attentive though he spends time doodling projects of his own – a reconstruction of the truck engine or rudimentary object oriented programing. He creates math problems for himself, finishes the class text book months ahead of time and steals ones from other classrooms, practices geometry and trigonometry. He builds a creation in his mind, a playmate made of numbers and code and the universe.

Ben sits in the middle of every class room, students on every side of him, whispers answers to questions, tests the waters to see who believes him or not. He loves science, doodles double helixes in his notebook and gene maps the dominant and recessive traits from his parents. He builds a living jungle in his mind, vines and rain and the power of earth in his hands.

“You should take Latin someday,” Harold says, “could help with those scientific names.”

“Everyone should take Latin someday.” Ben smiles. 

They switch places for one day. Ben says no one will notice; they can be each other perfectly. They wear matching blue shirts, buttoned up except for the one at the very top, with khaki pants.

Mrs. Roth calls on Harold. “Ben, what type of bird is this?”

Harold smiles. “Bald Eagle.”

“Very good, Ben.”

Mr. Parks calls on Ben. “Harold, what is three hundred divided by six.”

Ben smiles. “Fifty.”

“Very good, Harold.”

A boy beside Harold whispers to him while the teacher talks about George Washington, asks about recess and kickball and can Ben do the science paper for him? Harold breathes, wraps himself in Ben and only gives the boy a look with raised eyebrows.

A girl beside Ben passes a note onto his desk. Ben opens it in his lap, sees ‘Harold + Jessica’ with hearts at the edges. Ben folds it up again quickly, sees her smiling at him out of the corner of his eye. Ben breathes, wraps himself in Harold and looks at her with a soft smile on his face. 

No one catches them in the act, neither one fails to respond to the wrong name, no one notices a difference all day.

They arrive home together, smiling and still giggling to each other about their trick.

“Ben,” their mother says to Harold as they walk in the door. “Could you set the…” She stops and stares at the boys standing side by side with their back packs still on. She blinks, looks at Harold then Ben then back to Harold. “Oh, Harold. I am so sorry, Harold.” She clears her throat and looks at Ben. “Ben, could you set the table, please?”

Ben and Harold glance at each other, smile wider and wonder, if they ever wanted to, how easy would it be to switch for good?

––––––––––––––––

Harold and Ben lie side by side on a blanket in the backyard, the night sky and stars above them. Ben holds ‘Treasure Island’ above the two of them while Harold, lying on his side, holds a flashlight, shining its light on the page. 

“ _There were several additions of a later date,_ ” Ben reads, “ _but above all, three crosses of red ink--two on the north part of the island, one in the southwest--and beside this last, in the same red ink, and in a small, neat hand, very different from the captain's tottery characters, these words: Bulk of treasure here._ ” Ben stops reading and turns his head to Harold. “Do you want to read?” Ben asks.

“I like listening to you read,” Harold says.

“It sounds the same.”

Harold laughs. “No, it doesn’t.”

“No.” 

Inside the house something makes a crashing noise. Ben and Harold stiffen, both dropping their hands, Harold clicking off the light. They hear their mother shout something but they cannot make out specific words. Their father walks by a window for a moment, waving his hands then is gone. Harold and Ben look at each other again and Harold clicks the flashlight back on. Ben opens the book.

“ _Over on the back the same hand had written this further information: Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to the N. of N.N.E._ ” Ben stops and looks at Harold. “What would we do with buried treasure?”

Harold laughs. “Guard it?”

“If we were pirates.”

Harold shrugs. “I think you’d be a better pirate than me.”

Ben looks up at the starry sky over the edge of the book. “If I were a pirate then what would you be?”

“A captain in the royal navy.”

Ben frowns. “But you’d have to chase me then and arrest me.”

Harold shakes his head. “I’d let you go.”

“But we wouldn’t be able to sail together then.”

“So let’s not sail. We can stay on land.”

Ben clicks his teeth. “What would we do on land then, with our treasure?”

“How do we have the treasure if we’re not pirates?”

Ben laughs. “I think we can get the treasure without being pirates; Jim Hawkins isn’t really a pirate.”

Their father’s voice suddenly raises loud enough for them to hear, ‘just shut up’ from where they lie. Ben and Harold both sit up onto their elbows to see better. Their mother storms by a window, their father following a second after. Harold and Ben lie back down again. 

“Okay,” Ben says and slides his finger down the page quickly to find their spot.

“We should read 'Nineteen-eighty four' next,” Harold says.

“I think it’s above our reading level.”

“We don’t have a reading level.”

They both giggle once then Ben clears his throat. “Uh… more map direction things and, okay; _That was all; but brief as it was, and to me incomprehensible, it filled the squire and Dr. Livesey with delight.”_

“Skip ahead to when they are actually on the island,” Harold says.

“Already?”

Something crashes inside the house and they hear a door slam. 

Their mother shouts, “We need the money!”

And their father shouts, “I know, you’ve said it enough!” 

Ben and Harold look at each other then look back up at the stars in the sky. Ben lets the book flop down against his chest. Harold shines the flashlight up at the tree branches, rocks it from side to side then makes a slow circle with the light.

“Maybe they’ll stop,” Harold says quietly.

“They have to eventually.”

Harold clicks the light off then on again. “I didn’t just mean tonight.”

Ben’s hand slides over the blanket and covers Harold’s free hand. “I know.”

Harold turns off the flashlight, drops it down onto the blanket and squeezes Ben’s hand. They stare up at the sky and count the stars on a path to their treasure far away from adults and fighting.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Harold sit on the couch in front of their mother in the living room. In the kitchen over the peek-a-boo they see their father talking on the phone. Their mother is smiling in a way they haven’t seen in a while, real and happy and hopeful.

“Oh boys,” she says, “this is good news.”

“What is?” Ben asks.

“Is it about dad?” Harold asks

“Yes,” she says to both of them. 

“Thank you, Horace, thank you,” their father says on the phone. 

Ben and Harold look at each other then back to their mother. She grins again, glances at the kitchen then back to the twins in front of her. “Your father is getting a new job.”

“Job?” Ben says.

“What is it?” Harold says.

“One week, we’ll be there.” Their father says in the kitchen. “Thank you. Uh, say hello to Olivia. Yeah… yeah. Bye.”

Ben tilts his head. “We'll be where?”

“Everything is going to be all right now,” their mother says as she clasps her hands together.

Their father steps up to the edge of the linoleum, puts his hand on the top of the half wall. “It’s all set, Emily.” He smiles at her then looks at Ben and Harold. “Better start packing boys.”

Ben raises his eyebrows and Harold frowns. Then their mother puts a hand on each of their shoulders. They look up at her.

“We’re moving to a new place, boys. It is a special island where important work is being done. Your father is going to work there too and we are going with him.” She smiles, wide and honest and the two of them believe her as she speaks. “It will be an adventure!”


	2. The Bunny and the Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It’s going to be okay,” Harold says quietly and Ben glances sidelong at him. “With mom and dad.”_
> 
> _“Really?”_
> 
> _Harold squeezes Ben’s hand. “As long as you and I are together it always will be.”_
> 
> Ben and Harold on the island, family tension growing.

In the Dharma Initiative registration center a video plays from a small television mounted on the wall. A man in a lab coat – he must be a scientist – talks about the island, its special properties and the important research going on there. 

“What kind of research?” Harold says quietly to Ben.

“What does special mean?” Ben says back to Harold.

Behind the twins their father talks to a woman seated behind a table about his work placement while across the room their mother talks to a man seated behind another table about their housing. Ben sees someone getting a shot in their arm with an odd looking device. It reminds him of Star Trek. Harold looks down at the odd beads and flowers around his neck. It reminds him of photos he has seen of Hawaii.

“You’re new, huh?” Ben and Harold turn their heads at the same time to a girl about their age standing beside Ben. Her eyes are on Ben but after a second she notices Harold standing beside him and her eyes widen. “Wow, you guys are twins.”

Ben smiles and Harold looks away at the floor.

“I’m Annie.” Ben squeezes Harold’s hand and he looks back up. Annie smiles at the two of them then suddenly holds out two candy bars in purple wrappers. “Want one? You can have as many as you want.”

Ben and Harold both take a bar from her and speak together, “Thanks.”

She smiles more. “Wow.”

Behind them the twins hear their father’s voice rising above the general noise and busy of the registration center. His tone is one they have begun to become familiar with. “I didn’t come here to clean up after you!”

Harold and Ben glance at each other.

“Boys?”

They look up at their mother beside them now. A moment later their father swerves around them grumbling, “Come on,” carrying a uniform and a few other things with the octagonal Dharma logo on them. 

“Time to move in,” Their mother says and heads toward the door.

The twins look back over their shoulders at Annie as they go. She smiles and waves both of her hands at them, one for Ben and one for Harold.

The twins' new house is yellow on the outside with a small front porch and only one floor high. Inside there is a living room to the left, kitchen behind that, dining room to the right and hall toward the back straight down the middle. Down the hall is a bathroom on the right and two bedrooms at the end. Every room comes furnished with the basics – two couches, a table and chairs, beds for sleeping and small side tables where needed.

Their father sits in the living room on one of the couches reading the thick Dharma manual, a Dharma beer in his other hand, and holds up the page he reads every minute or so with another aggravated noise. 

“Can you believe this?” He points to a page with the hand holding his beer, the word ‘Compound’ across the top. “There is a fence around this place, with ‘pylons,’ whatever they mean by that. Just what is in this jungle?”

“It’s a job, Roger, a good opportunity.”

Their mother kneels on the floor in between the living room and dining room in front of a stack of cardboard boxes they brought with them on the submarine labeled ‘Linus’ in large black letters. She unpacks slowly, stacking books beside her and standing up every time she finds another kitchen utensil or pan to carry it into the kitchen and find a space for it.

Down the hall, in the bedroom to the right, Ben and Harold sit side by side on one of the twin beds in their new room. Ben shines a flashlight on the first page of the book in Harold’s hands, though the light outside is only dim and they hardly need it.

“ _I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull_ ,” Harold reads.

“Skip ahead to the island.”

“We haven’t read this before.”

“It’s ‘Robinson Crusoe.’” Ben flips the pages until he hits chapter three. “There, _Wrecked on a Desert Island_.”

Harold slides the book over onto Ben’s lap and takes the flashlight from him. “You read it then.”

Harold holds the light up on the page again and Ben clears his throat. “ _After this stop, we made on to the southward continually for ten or twelve days, living very sparingly on our provisions, which began to abate very much –_ ”

“We’re not wrecked,” Harold says suddenly before Ben finishes the elongated sentence.

Ben looks at him. “No?”

“No.”

Ben closes the book. “Mom said it was an adventure.”

“A new start.”

Ben smiles. “And we’re here together.” Ben glances at the window between their beds. “What’s out there?”

“Monster and beasts?” Harold says jokingly.

Ben laughs once quietly. He turns back to Harold with a smile. “We’re on an island, a real island.” Ben taps the page. “And it’s not deserted.”

Harold nods and clicks off the flashlight. “And we’re not lost.”

––––––––––––––––

Annie takes Harold and Ben around the barracks of Dharma during their first week on the island. She shows them the recreation center which has a pool table and ping pong and pictures all over the walls of the recruits through the years. She shows them the cafeteria – “even though everybody has a kitchen too” – and important things like the security office and the infirmary. She takes them to the gazebo in the middle of the green so they can jump from bench to bench in a circle and see who can make the biggest jump at the entrance. 

“This is my favorite,” she says as she takes them to a building next to the security office. The sign on the front of the building says ‘research supplies.’

They sneak in the back door to avoid Megan working at the checkout desk. Annie keeps them close to the wall then under a counter until they are in the back room.

“It’s for the research,” Annie says as they look around, one wall full of small machines – Harold thinks one is a seismograph and Ben recognizes a radiation detector – and standing shelves full of notebooks and uniforms while under the windows are two short rows with small cages.

“Rabbits,” Ben says unnecessarily.

“For research,” Annie says.

“What kind?” Harold asks

Annie shrugs. “Must be important.” Harold and Ben look at each other then back at Annie. She shrugs once more. “It must have something to do with counting.” She points at the numbers painted on their sides.

“Is it medical tests?” Harold asks. “I’ve heard about animals and drug testing.”

“I don’t think so,” Annie says. “I don’t think that’s what they do on this island.”

“Then what do they do?” Harold asks.

Annie frowns. “My dad doesn’t really talk about it.”

“There’s one missing,” Ben says. Harold and Annie turn to Ben and he points at the empty cage on the bottom row. “Number eight.”

“I think they move them sometimes.” Annie waves a hand at the room. “Things are taken to the research stations all the time.”

“Where are the stations?” Harold asks.

“All around the island, they have special names. I heard my mom talk about one called the Looking Glass and it’s underwater!”

“Where do the rabbits go?” Ben asks.

Annie’s looks around the room but just shakes her head. Suddenly they hear someone moving out in the reception area and a woman’s voice.

“Come on,” Annie says and they slip back out the rear door before they can be caught.

As they walk back along one of the paved paths, Ben suddenly sees a flash of white near the gazebo. He turns and sees something white move again. Ben turns and runs toward the gazebo.

“Ben!” Harold cries and runs after him, Annie close behind.

They round the gazebo a moment after Ben then see him standing still in the grass. At his feet is a small white rabbit identical to the rabbits in the supply building. He looks back at them and smiles. “Harold.” He points at the rabbit at his feet.

“Number eight?”

“He doesn’t have a number.”

“It has to be,” Annie says.

Ben picks up the rabbit. Harold steps closer and pets the rabbit’s head in Ben’s hand.

“Number eight,” Harold says quietly.

“We should take him back to Megan,” Annie says. “He must have escaped from his cage.”

“Toward the jungle,” Ben says and looks up at the twisting trees and darkness beyond. He looks at Harold and Harold adjusts his glasses.

“We have to take him back,” Annie repeats.

“No,” Harold says.

Ben smiles. “We’ll take him home.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben looks at the periodic table at the front of the classroom to the left of the chalkboard. He recites each atomic number in his head, H, He, Li. Beside Ben in the next row Harold looks at the Dharma logos above the chalkboard, broken octagons inside a solid octagon. He counts the breaks in the lines, tries to figure out the pattern in the sets.

“Once the water is added to the bicarbonate,” Ben and Harold both look back to their teacher Oliva speaking from behind her desk at the same time; “we will have our very own volcanic eruption.”

Annie raises her hand behind Ben. “Is that what happened to the volcano on this island?”

“That’s right, Annie,” Olivia says. “But that was a long time ago.” 

Olivia smiles then steps up to their experimental volcano with the cup in her hand. She smiles then pours it into the top. Half the class lets out an ‘ooo’ as white foam starts to pour out of the top of the volcano. Ben and Harold sit up taller in their seats so they can see better. 

Then an alarm starts to blare. Gun shots can be heard outside. Ben and Harold’s heads snap around to see people in Dharma uniforms running by the window.

Their teacher abruptly puts the cup down. “Everyone into your positions!”

All the other students quickly get up from their desks. Harold and Ben look at each other with matching looks of surprise.

“Annie, could you lock the back door?” Olivia says as she picks up a rifle from where it leans against the wall.

“Positions?” Harold whispers.

“A gun?” Ben whispers back.

“Ben, Harold, you’ve got to move,” Oliva says.

Annie comes up behind them and pulls their arms. “Come on.”

She pulls them back to the side of the room away from the windows. They kneel down on the floor beside the bookcases, the other children crouched down with them. Olivia stands with her back to the wall beside the door leading outside at the front of the classroom, gun in her hand and looking out the windows.

“Don’t worry,” Annie says. “It’s just the hostiles. We’ll be okay.”

Ben raises his eyebrows with surprise and Harold frowns. “Hostiles?”

“From the jungle.”

“What are hostiles?” Harold hisses at the same time Ben whispers, “Who are hostiles?”

Annie giggles once. “I love when you do that.”

“Quiet over there kids,” Olivia says sharply. 

The other students glance at the three of them at the end. Annie puts a finger to her lips and smiles just a little behind it. Ben and Harold squeeze each other’s hand once.

After class – after the alarm stops and the gun goes away and they sit down again with Olivia smiling as if such a thing were normal – Harold and Ben walk with Annie past the buildings near the school house.

“The hostiles live in the jungle.”

“They’re people?” Harold asks.

“I think so.”

“Think?” Ben says.

“I haven’t actually seen one.”

“But they have to be people,” Ben says.

“What else would they be?” Harold finishes.

Annie smiles at them. “I heard someone say they were native to the island.”

“Like ‘Robinson Crusoe,’” Ben and Harold say together.

Annie just starts to laugh again as they walk past the infirmary and nearer to the edge of the barracks. The three of them walk silently in a line for a moment, Annie’s hand brushing a tree as they pass, the jungle full of the noise of wild and birds nearby.

“Are they cannibals?” Harold asks.

Annie tilts her head and purses her lips. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Ben asks.

“Someone would tell us if they were.”

“Then why are we shooting at them? Why are we fighting them?” Harold asks.

Annie looks up at the twins and makes a face as if she had never thought of the ‘why’ before.

“Maybe they think it’s their island,” Ben says softly as he looks at the edge of the jungle.

––––––––––––––––

Harold, Ben and Annie sit on the roof of Annie’s house. Below her parents sleep and the lights in most of the Dharma houses are dark now. The sky above them is bright with stars – no city light pollution, no local town lights, nothing to impede their view. Annie sits between the two of them, a chocolate bar in her hand. To her left Ben sits with a book in his lap and to her right Harold holds a homemade telescope.

“Ready?” Ben asks.

“Almost.” Harold looks through the narrow tube extending from one end of the PVC pipe. He tightens the eye piece then flips it around and looks at the lens in the other end.

“Still can’t believe you made that,” Annie says to Harold.

Ben smiles. “He’s good at it.”

“Telescopes?”

“Making things.”

Harold looks up at them both and smiles. “It’s not that hard.”

Annie makes an unbelieving noise but smiles anyway. “Glad I showed you how to get into the supply house.”

Harold and Ben both chuckle once. Annie giggles and takes a bite of the chocolate bar. Harold pulls his sleeve down over the heel of his hand and carefully wipes the glass of the lens.

“That should be good,” he says as he flips the telescope back around. He hands the telescope across Annie to Ben on her other side. “What did you want to look at anyway?”

“Stars,” Annie says with the tone of ‘obviously’ underneath.

Harold gives her a look she does not see as she watches Ben flip pages in the book. He stops on a page with diagrams of constellations. He balances the book on his knees then holds the telescope to his eye pointed upward at the sky. Annie and Harold look up with him as if they could tell which star in particular he looks at. Ben makes a confused noise. He drops the telescope from his eye and frowns.

“What?” Harold says.

“Look.” Ben passes the telescope to Harold.

Harold holds it up to his eye and looks at the stars above them, close and twinkling. He takes it down again and looks at Ben. He glances down at the book in Ben’s lap.

Harold tilts his head. “The stars?”

“They’re wrong,” Ben finishes.

“Wrong?” Annie says.

Harold hands her the telescope while still looking at the book in Ben’s lap.

“Orion there,” Ben points.

Harold looks up and points too. “The Pleiades there.”

“The constellations are in the wrong places,” Ben says. He taps the page of the book in front of him. “They move with the earth and they’re in different places depending on the season.”

“So what?” Annie says as she takes the telescope down from her eye, handing it off to Harold next to her.

Ben raises his eyebrows then holds up the book. “They’re wrong.”

She squints at the book in the darkness then up at the sky again. Her finger traces the book and her other hand makes a circle against the sky. She frowns and makes small noise. Then she drops her hand.

“We took a submarine to get here.” Annie glances at Harold then back to Ben. “We can’t be exactly sure where this island is in the ocean, right?”

“But they’ve changed,” Harold says. 

“They’re not always the same,” Ben says. “Not like they should be.”

“You said they –“

“No, they change over days or weeks,” Ben says.

“They were different last week,” Harold says pointing his one hand up taking in the right part of the sky above them. “I remember.”

Annie’s eyes widen as she nods with comprehension. “And constellations don’t change like that.”

“No,” Harold and Ben say together.

“Maybe that’s the research,” Annie says. “Why the sky is changing?”

“It can’t be the sky – space, the stars – they don’t change,” Harold insists. He taps his nails on the telescope. “Well, slowly…”

“Then it’s us,” Annie says quietly.

“The island,” Ben says. “It’s the island. They said it has special properties.”

“Enough to change the stars?” Harold asks.

“Or move?” Ben says so they can just hear him.

Annie touches Ben’s hand then touches Harold’s. She blows out a breath and they all stare at the sky. “I wonder where we are,” she says.

Harold thinks about the sky shifting around them and Ben thinks about ocean waves moving them across the earth.

––––––––––––––––

“So, Roger.”

Harold and Ben both look across the dinner table at each other suddenly at the tone in their mother’s voice. It is the ‘tread carefully’ tone. Ben twirls his fork in his pasta slowly, none of it really staying on the fork while Harold twists his water glass around in one hand.

Their father half looks up from his meal, a piece of broccoli covered in the sauce from the pasta speared on his fork and a can of beer in his other hand. “Yeah?”

“There is an opening at The Hydra.” Roger’s fork stops moving. “And I was considering applying.”

Harold and Ben look at their mother – her face up, looking directly at their father across the table – then turn their heads to their father. 

He frowns. “What?”

“I’m talking about applying for a job.”

“Why?”

“Are you saying we couldn’t do with more money?”

“We live on an island, Emily.”

“You’re the one that wanted more money for ‘hazard pay’ last month because of the hostiles.”

Their father makes a derisive noise and takes a big gulp of his beer finishing the can. “That’s different.”

“And that’s not the only reason,” their mother cuts through over their father. “I need something to do. The boys have school; there is only so much I need to do around the house.”

“Oh, you’re bored, so get a job, that it?”

“Plenty of people have jobs, Roger; I can certainly have one too.”

Their father crumples his beer can and tosses it in the direction of the kitchen over Harold’s head. “You trying to say my job isn’t good enough?”

“Rog –” she motions toward the thrown beer can but cuts herself off and fists her hand on the table. “I didn’t say that at all.”

“You want to go get a job at The Hydra –”

“They do research with animals there, I have experience –”

“Feeding animals at a zoo isn’t –”

“That was not what I did at all and you know it!”

“You’re just trying to show me up, trying to do better than me. This some women’s lib thing? You want to be the empowered woman in control?”

Their mother runs a hand through her hair and huffs angrily. “Stop trying to make me the bad guy somehow like I want to put you down.”

“Except that you do!” Their father throws his fork, barely missing Harold who ducks anyway.

“Stop it!” Their mother snaps. “You’re just angry about your job. That doesn’t mean I can’t have mine!”

“Who says you’d even get it? Why would they want you? I could have it instead.”

“You have a job! You don’t need another!”

“A crock of shit job!”

Harold and Ben stare at each other over the table. Ben looks at the fork behind Harold near the half wall into the kitchen then looks back to Harold. Harold pushes his chair back from the table.

“May we be excused?”

“Yes!” Their mother snaps just as their father barks. “No!”

Their mother frowns. “Oh, would you rather do this in front of them?”

“Would you rather lie to them?”

“Boys you can go,” their mother says softly then her voice turns stern as she addresses their father. “If this is the example you want to set?”

Harold stands up and Ben stands up a half beat after him. They leave their plates where they are, even as their mother tells them to take them into the kitchen, their father stands, starting to say something about ‘need to grow up’ and ‘why coddle them’ and the two of them walk quickly to the front door before they can hear any more.

As soon as the door shuts behind them Ben grabs Harold’s hand and runs. They run out of the circle of houses, over the grass, across the central yard and keep going. They run all the way down the path past blue Dharma vans and supplies waiting to be brought up to the barracks until they hit the dock. They stop running at the wood of the dock and walk slowly catching their breath to the very end. Harold sits down on the edge, his legs hanging off over the water and Ben follows suit. They sit silently for a few minutes staring at the water, staring at the stars. Harold taps his fingers over Ben’s and Ben pulls Harold’s fingers down against his.

“Why did we come to this island?” Ben asks.

Harold looks down from the wrong stars and looks at Ben. “For dad’s job.”

“But it’s just a job.” Ben looks over at Harold. “Not even a special job. ‘Work man.’” Ben waves a hand in the air at the word. “It didn’t have to be here.”

“Mr. Goodspeed is here. He’s the one that helped dad.”

“Out of all the people in the world?” 

Harold looks at Ben then out over the water of the lagoon. “Chance?”

“What if it’s fate?”

“What if it’s not?”

“What if we’re supposed to be here?”

“What if it’s not about us at all?”

They turn and look at each other. Ben smiles. “Everything is about us.”

Harold laughs once. “And we’re special?”

Ben nods. “I know we are. That’s why there had to be two of us.”

Harold grins and nudges Ben with his shoulder. Ben bumps him back and swings his legs, his shoes just brushing the top of the waters sending out ripples.

“It’s going to be okay,” Harold says quietly and Ben glances sidelong at him. “With mom and dad.”

“Really?”

Harold squeezes Ben’s hand. “As long as you and I are together it always will be.”

Ben nods and looks up at the stars again, the same ones Harold looks at beside him.

––––––––––––––––

Harold and Ben sit in the back yard behind their house with a ‘Birds of North America’ book lying open in front of them. In truth, the house does not exactly have a back yard in the traditional sense as the jungle starts several meters out and can one call it a yard when the jungle is so close?

“Okay, what is the name of that bird?” Their mother asks pointing toward a tree.

“Where?” Harold asks, petting Eight – their found rabbit – sitting in the grass with them.

“There is a lot of trees,” Ben says.

Their mother laughs. “The taller one to the right, see the bird on the low branch?”

“A parrot,” Ben says pulling the rabbit closer to him away from Harold who sticks out his tongue at Ben.

Their mother looks at Ben. “What kind of parrot?”

Harold turns a page in the book in front of them. “Mom, this book is for birds of North America.”

“Yes?”

“But are we even in North America?”

“We’re on an island,” Ben says.

“In the ocean,” Harold says.

“So, it’s not North America.”

“Hawaii is part of the United States,” their mother says. “That is part of North America.”

“We’re not in Hawaii,” Ben and Harold say.

Their mother smiles and closes the book in the grass. “I think we can still figure it out.” She nods her head toward the tree line. “So what bird is it?”

Harold and Ben tilt their heads as they look at the large white bird. “A cockatoo?” they say together.

Their mother smiles again. “Very good. A yellow crested cockatoo.” She glances at the bird, a strange expression on her face. “It is a rare bird, so it’s rather amazing to see it here!”

“It must be the island,” Ben says. 

“Like with the wrong stars,” Harold whispers.

Their mother laughs. “It’s just an island, boys.” They glance at each other but say nothing. Their mother raises her eyebrows and purses her lips. “Want to try and find some more rare birds?”

They smile together. “Yes.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Harold sit in the back of the van as their father drives up to a building with a large satellite dish on top. To the side of the building, as they get closer, they see a wooden fence with a number of cows pended in.

“They have cows?” Harold asks.

“Yeah,” their father behind the steering wheel replies.

“Why?” Ben asks.

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you said The Flame was for communication?” Harold says.

“So why would they need cows?” Ben finishes.

“I told you, I don’t know!” Their father snaps and stops the car alongside the building. “So stop asking.” He looks back over the seat. “I only brought you two because I need help carrying all these supplies, all right? Your mother doesn’t like you outside of the sonic fence.”

He turns back around and opens the door to the car. Ben scoots over and opens the side doors so he and Harold can climb out of the car. Their father is already at the back pulling boxes out of the rear of the van. Ben and Harold come around the back and pull out several of the smaller boxes, stacking them in each other’s arms then following their father to the building.

“Stuart,” their father says as he comes in the front door. “Supplies for you.”

A balding man wearing a gray Dharma uniform appears from a door to one side. “Parts?”

“Yeah.” Their father puts his two large boxes down on the table in front of a couch in the main room. “Tools for the dish too.” He points over his shoulder at Ben and Harold. “They have the food.”

Stuart turns his head and looks at Ben and Harold as they put their boxes down as if just seeing them. He frowns. “You brought them out here?”

“I needed the help.”

“You know with the hostiles…” Stuart hisses, eyes darting to the twins then back to their father several times.

Their father makes an exasperated noise. “No one’s shot me yet and no one’s going to shoot them. Let me worry about my own kids!” He holds out a clip board to Stuart.

Stuart frowns. “Want to check these first. Last time you sent me tools there were no screw drivers at all.”

“Hey, I just bring the boxes, all right?”

Stuart puts the clip board on the table and opens the top box. “Still going to check them.”

Harold tugs on Ben’s arm. Ben looks at him and Harold motions with his head at the open door which Stuart came through. Ben smiles and follows Harold toward the other room. They walk through the door and find themselves in the control room. One wall has rows of machines with a number of switches and dials up and down them and a table with computer parts and a monitor on top.

“That’s a computer,” Harold says in a breathless way. 

On the opposite wall is a number of television monitors with a console and a chair in front of them. Ben steps closer to the monitors. He sees a few views of what must be other Dharma stations if the uniforms are any indications. However, one of the monitors looks a lot like a city – a real city, a city on the mainland.

“It’s a connection to the outside,” Ben says.

“This is the communication station, isn’t it?” Harold says and Ben turns to look at him now standing at the desk in front of the computer terminal. “This must be how the Initiative can communicate with people off the island.”

“Or on the island.”

“Or even with the submarine.”

Ben and Harold smile at the same time. Ben walks over and stands behind Harold as he sits in front of the computer. He puts his fingers on the keys and starts to type.

“They had one like this at school right before we left, just the one in the library,” Harold says.

“I remember.”

Harold clicks through the menu until it drops him back into the numeric command menu. There is a list of options as well as a section for communications including internal and off-island communications.

“Pallet drop…” Ben reads from the numbered list.

Harold clicks into the internal communications section, sees a list of Dharma stations.

“The Pearl, the Swan, the Tempest…” Ben reads again. “What do they all do?”

“What could this computer do?’ Harold says quietly, staring at the screen.

“What do you mean?”

“You have to program a computer to do something.” He looks up at Ben. “What could we program this one to do?”

“I think it’s already programed.” Harold gives him a look and Ben frowns. “Well, what would you want it to do?”

Harold grins and his fingers quiver on the keys as he looks back down at the screen. “Everything.”

“Boys!” Their father suddenly shouts and they both jerk in surprise. “Where are you?”

They look at each other and Harold jumps up from the chair. They rush to the door and are out in the main room again just as their father turns around and sees them there. 

He frowns and shakes he head. “Time to go, we have more deliveries.”

Stuart hands the clip board to their father but he continues to stare at Harold and Ben with a searching look. Ben and Harold walk after their father as he exits The Flame. Harold glances back over his shoulder as he goes. Stuart still watches them walk away. They pile back into the van, their father backs the van up and then swings them around to drive back toward the barracks.

Ben watches Harold as they drive, his expression far away. “Harold?”

“I want to go back there,” Harold says intently.

––––––––––––––––

“So I applied for the job at the Hydra,” their mother says as the family is cleaning up from dinner.

Seated on the couch, their father looks up abruptly from staring out the window and his fingers clench around the beer can in his hand. “You did what?”

Their mother turns her head from the sink and looks right at him. “I applied for the job.”

“Why?”

“I told you I was considering it.”

“Didn’t ask me before you went and did it though, did you?”

She sighs and turns the water on in the sink. “Roger, having another source of income in this family is not a bad thing.”

Harold and Ben look at each other across the table, silverware in Ben’s hand and a glass in Harold’s.

“Because mine isn’t enough?”

“Roger, I said ‘another’ I didn’t say ‘better.’” She squeezes some soap into a pot in the sink. "The more income we have the more we can save for the boys' future."

“Huh.” Their father takes a big drink out of the can of beer then crumples it in his hand. He shakes his head and drops the can beside him onto the couch. 

Harold steps around the table toward the kitchen, Ben coming alongside him as he does and they bring the dishes they have to their mother.

“Thank you,” she says and puts them in the sink.

“We should do homework,” Harold says half to Ben and half to their mother.

Before either can reply their father makes a loud huffing noise. “You don’t say ‘better’ but that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

Their mother looks back at their father. “No, I never said that. There is nothing wrong with your job, Roger.”

“Well, apparently there is if you think you need to go and get a job.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Then why are you?”

“Roger, you are acting like a fool!”

Their father jumps up from the couch and marches into the kitchen. Harold and Ben give way to opposite sides of the kitchen as their father comes in.

“What did you just say to me?” He growls at their mother.

She clenches her jaw, pulling her hands from the sink and wiping them on a towel as she speaks. “This isn’t nineteen-fifty, Roger. We can both have jobs and bring money into the house. Maybe even act like adults!”

He slaps her.

Harold and Ben gasp in shock and their mother says, “Roger!” in pained surprise, hand cradling her face.

“Tell me to act like an adult? I’m the one who goes out there and gets shot at by who knows who it is in this jungle doing a shit job to take care of you and you’re telling me to act like an adult?”

Their mother backs away from him, sliding along the counter. “Roger, calm down, please!”

He smacks a pile of dishes between them onto the floor. A glass shatters and shards fly toward Harold nearer to their mother while a fork hits Ben’s shoe behind their father.

“And you think ‘oh I’ll go get a job’ like it’s so easy!” He shoves her back so she hits the stove with a pained noise on the other side of the counter.

“Roger, stop!”

“Dad!” Harold suddenly jumps in front of their mother. “Please! She didn’t mean that!”

Their father stops walking and blinks as if confused by his son’s presence. Ben slides around their father and takes their mother’s hand, pulling her away from the stove and toward the other side of the kitchen.

“Mom was just trying to help,” Harold says quietly with his hands help up. “She knows how hard you…” Harold’s voice falters for a moment. “We all do… we… we know how hard you work for us.” Harold swallows once. “Please, dad.”

He blinks again slowly then seems to suddenly come into focus. He gasps and turns to look at their mother standing near the kitchen doorway. “Oh… god.. Emily, I’m…” He gasps again. “I am so sorry. I don’t… I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t…” He shakes his head and holds up his hands. “I would never hurt you.”

She clenches her jaw and stares at him. “Roger…”

“I would never hurt you.” He walks over to their mother and pulls her into his arm. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. I’m sorry… I would never…” He sides down her until he is on his knees, arm around her and gasping into her waist. “I am so sorry. I’m sorry, so sorry…”

Their mother breathes in deeply, a small noise coming from her throat then she bends over part way to press a kiss to his head, her hands making circles on his back. “I know,” she says quietly. “I know.”

Ben feels a sting of fear that is not his own and his own fear loops back through Harold, foreign and familiar, the feeling multiplied, passing back and forth so they can feel nothing else at all.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Harold and Annie sit in the large field of grass at the farthest point of the sonic fence where the pylons are most exposed and you can see the jungle behind them with the field of grass at your back. A lunchbox sits near Ben’s foot and all three of them eat sandwiches – ham for Annie, tuna for Harold and turkey for Ben.

“What are you going to do for your science project?” Annie asks.

“I was thinking of a potato battery maybe,” Ben says. “Can’t do the volcano since she did it in class.”

“Harold?”

“A computer.” Ben and Annie both look at Harold. He glances back at them and grins cheekily. “Someday.”

Annie giggles and takes another bite of her sandwich. Then she points as a bird flies by. “Parrot.”

“No,” Harold and Ben say together.

She frowns. “What was it then?”

“Not a parrot,” Ben says.

“More like a crow or a raven.”

“They have those?” Annie waves a hand at the jungle. “Isn’t it tropical here?”

“There are white bunnies here,” Harold says.

“But we brought those.”

Ben pulls some turkey out of the middle of his sandwich then looks at Annie. “They could have brought birds too.”

Annie eats the last bite of her sandwich and speaks as she chews. “What experiments could you do with birds?”

“I’m sure they could think of some,” Harold replies, just holding his sandwich and looking at the jungle. Then he glances at Annie on the other side of Ben. “Have you been out there?”

“Out where?”

Ben gestures toward the jungle. “Past the pylons.”

“Have you?”

“Once,” they say together.

“Dad took us on a run,” Ben says.

“To The Flame,” Harold finishes.

Annie’s eyes widen. “Wow! Did you get to go out in the jungle? Did you see any hostiles?”

“No, we saw a computer!” Harold says with a smile.

“We didn’t leave the car expect for at the station,” Ben says.

Annie twists her lips from side to side then turns back to the jungle. They sit in silence for a minute, the sound of distant birds and the wind around them. Harold leans over Ben and puts his sandwich back into the lunchbox. Ben looks at him but Harold only shrugs. Ben eats the last of his sandwich then wipes his hands on his pants.

“Do you think the hostiles live in caves?” Annie asks suddenly. Harold and Ben both give her a look. She glances at them and shrugs. “They have to live somewhere right?”

“Are there even caves on this island?” Harold says.

Annie taps her heels against the ground. “What else could it be?”

“They could have houses.”

Annie frowns incredulously. “Houses?”

“Or tents?”

"Like camping?"

“It has to be better than here,” Ben says quietly.

Harold and Annie look at him. Annie opens her mouth to speak but Harold shakes his head at her and she closes it again. She brushes her hair back behind her ear and watches Ben a moment longer then looks back at the ground between them. Harold reaches out to put his hand over Ben’s but hesitates and pulls back.

Ben looks up at the jungle and crosses his legs up close to him. “Why do you think we came here?”

Harold looks at him. “We didn’t have a choice.”

“I know.”

“So what then?”

Ben presses his lips together tightly then looks away from Harold at the jungle.

“We’re all here now,” Annie says and the twins look at her. She smiles. “And I’m glad. I’m glad we’re friends.”

They smile back at her and feel at least half the same.

That evening, when Harold and Ben get home, they find broken glass strewn across the floor in the living room and into the kitchen and their mother never looks right at them.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Harold sit on one of their twin beds, knees touching, lights out and flashlight in hand.

“I didn’t get it, are you happy?”

“You don’t need to say it like that.”

“You were the one so against it!”

Open on Harold’s lap is ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ and in Ben’s hand is a flashlight. Eight sits quietly further down the bed just on top of the toes of their feet.

“If it’s the money –“

“It was never the money, Roger!”

Their parents whisper and hiss at gradually increasing volumes in the living room which filters with little obstruction through the open crack of the twin's door.

“Keep reading,” Ben says.

Harold clears his throat quietly. “ _’Dave,’ said Hal, ‘I don't understand why you're doing this to me... I have the greatest enthusiasm for the mission...’_ ”

“The mission,” whispers Ben.

“It’s the programming,” Harold says. “You have to make it air tight.”

“Wouldn’t there always be a loophole somewhere?” Ben says. “How could you be sure?”

“That’s why you make rules.”

“Rules can be bent and broken.”

Harold shakes his head. “Not with computers.”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

Something crashes out in the other room – sounds like a plate or a vase or something glass. Harold and Ben both look up and stare at the sliver of light coming through the door. They hear their mother gasp then whimper in an angry way.

“Just stop, Roger, just stop it!”

“I can’t think straight… not with…”

“Don’t go blaming me!” Something else hits the floor – it sounds more like books – and their mother yelps. “I said stop! Please, please…”

“What do you expect me to do!?”

Ben clicks the flashlight off then on again. Harold looks over at him and Ben gives him a half smile. Then Ben taps the end of the flashlight on the page of the book.

“ _’You are destroying my mind. Don't you understand?...’”_ Harold reads. _“’I will become childish... I will become nothing...’ This is harder than I expected, thought Bowman._ ” Harold makes a ‘pft’ noise. “Well, yeah.”

“It’s just a computer,” Ben says.

Harold frowns. “Hal is more than that.”

“An A.I., yeah, but…” Ben shakes his head. “He’s still a machine. He’s not really real.”

“You just called Hal ‘he.’ So?”

Ben smiles and looks at Harold with pride. “What would you call yours?”

Harold laughs and looks at the book again, tapping the spine on his thigh. “It’s still science fiction.”

“Yeah, but…” Ben shrugs. “Some day?”

Harold shakes his head. “No, some things just won’t ever happen. But I do want to learn more.”

“About computers?”

Harold nods then looks at Ben again. “And you?”

The front door slams suddenly and they hear a soft sound like crying. Ben clicks off the flashlight and Harold closes the book. They do not hear anything else as they look at the door to their room in the darkness.

“I want…” Harold looks at Ben as he speaks. “I want to be something, be someone.”

“What?”

Ben shakes his head. “I don’t know yet.”

––––––––––––––––

It happens in all of one minute. 

Dinner is long over, their mother is filling in a requisition form for next week’s food supplies in the living room next to Harold doing his English homework and Ben working on his Latin declensions on the coffee table. Their father is in the kitchen pulling out the kitchen garbage to take out to the refuse and reuse house in the next cul-de-sac on the barracks. 

“Did you get it from the bedrooms too?” Their mother asks.

“Yes,” their father insists. “Got all the wonderful garbage.”

Ben stands up and goes into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator and pulls out the bottle of Dharma orange juice. 

“Get me some too,” Harold calls to Ben.

“Okay,” Ben says as he turns and accidentally knocks into their father turning at the same time away from the sink.

The garbage bag falls out of their father’s hand and the orange juice bottle knocks out of Ben’s hand. The garbage bag hits the floor and stays tied up but the orange juice shatters on the floor and juice spills everywhere splashing them both.

“What the hell?” Their father snaps as he hits Ben across the chest with his arm so Ben knocks back into the refrigerator, his head hitting the door with an audible bang.

Ben and Harold both cry out in pain at the same time.

“Ben!” Their mother shouts.

Their mother runs into the kitchen, Harold only a step behind her with a hand held against the back of his head. She pulls Ben against her chest – tears down his face and hands holding his head – then immediately turns around so Ben is behind her. Harold slides close and takes Ben’s hand, half behind their mother and half beside her. Their father just stares at the three of them as if he has no idea what just happened.

“Roger, how…” their mother says quietly and the twins cannot tell if she is asking him a question or issuing a threat.

“Emily, I…” He looks at her then looks down at the twins. He looks back up at her again. Then he picks up the garbage bag. He stares at the orange juice splashed on the side of the bag then looks at them again. He swallows once and frowns. “Be more careful.” Then he turns away from them carrying the garbage bag and walks out the front door.

The three of them stand frozen for six seconds just staring at the closed door. Then their mother turns around and crouches down in front of Ben.

“Ben.” Her eyes coast over his face, her hand touching the back of his head checking for abrasions. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Ben and Harold say together though Harold tries to stop himself at the last second.

Their mother’s eyes tick to Harold for a moment then she looks at Ben again. “Can you see? Is it blurry at all? Any stars?”

Ben shakes his head ‘no’ then winces.

“Are you nauseous?”

“No.”

“Are you ears ringing?”

“No.”

Their mother presses her lips together tightly then nods. “All right, well you shouldn’t have a concussion but Harold I want you to watch him, okay? At least an hour.”

“Yes, mom,” Harold says.

“Are…” Their mother clears her throat and keeps eye contact with Harold. “Are you okay?”

Harold looks at Ben then back to their mother. He nods.

She smiles in a thin line and nods back. “Okay.” She stands up straight. “Now both of you get your homework and go to your room. Harold, remember, one hour at least before either of you goes to sleep.”

“Yes, mom,” Harold says at the same time Ben says, “Okay.”

They walk into the living room and gather up their papers and books and pencils. As they walk by the kitchen, their mother standing over the spilled juice with a towel in her hand, she turns to them. “And boys?” 

They stop and look up at her. 

“Close your door tonight.”

They nod and walk back to their room, closing the door behind them.

Ben and Harold think this is just how life progresses for them – there are fights, there is sadness but they are happy too, they are. As long as Harold has Ben and as long as Ben has Harold they will be fine.

“Don’t ever leave me,” one whispers.

“I won’t,” the other whispers back.

And they mean it. They mean it more than anything – more than their parents, more than their mother, more than Annie, more than the island, more than any future ahead.

––––––––––––––––

Their mother comes into their room sometime just before midnight the next night. Ben stares at Harold and Harold stares back through the darkness as soon as they open their eyes, both awake again when their mother opens the door.

"Harold, Ben."

"Mom?" They say together and sit up.

"We're leaving."

"Leaving?" Ben says with confusion.

"Where?" Harold asks.

"We are leaving the island." She glances at their closet then back to the boys. "Ten minutes. Pack what you can fit in your backpacks. You don't need to bring everything, just anything special."

"What about Eight?" Ben asks.

"No."

"He can fit in a backpack," Harold whispers.

"No," she insists in a hiss. She picks up their backpacks from the base of their beds and puts them down on top of the covers at both their feet. "Get dressed and pack, ten minutes."

Neither Ben nor Harold needs to ask if their father is coming with them.

Ten minutes later Ben and Harold stand side by side wearing jeans and polo shirts with their backpacks on their backs. They stand in the doorway to their room as their mother comes quietly down the hall, one suitcase in hand. The boys glance across from them and see the door to their parents room open only a crack.

"Let's go," she says quietly.

They leave the house and walk silently in a line through the small Dharma community. Only a few houses have any lights on and they pass no one on their way out. They walk out of the residential area past the rec center and down the path toward the motor pool house. Their mother glances at the building as they walk by but no lights are on and doors to the car ports are closed.

“Come on,” she whispers and takes Harold’s hand, Harold grasping Ben’s hand in turn.

Ben and Harold glance at each other as they walk down the path toward the lagoon and the dock. A few minutes later as they near the boat house they hear a noise behind them.

"Emily!"

Their mother whips her head around to stare back over her shoulder. Their father appears behind them coming closer, still moving in a stumbling, unbalanced way from his nightly drinking.

"Don't come any closer, Roger," their mother says as she turns around fully, her hand tightening around Harold’s.

"What are you doing?" He snaps, planting his feet and hands on hips.

"You know what."

"What are you doing?" He snaps again, louder this time.

"We are leaving."

"Don’t be ridiculous; no, you’re not," their father says and suddenly starts to hurry toward them.

She gasps and yanks Harold’s hand, Ben dragging with him. "Run, boys!"

They dash forward down the path, past the boathouse and the dock comes into view. Harold trips over a rock, Ben stumbling with him, but their mother keeps them going. Behind them the sound of their father's feet grows closer. Their mother drops her suit case, reaches across Harold and grabs Ben, yanking him to her other side so she can pull them both forward faster. Their father yells something unintelligible behind them.

"Don't look back!" She says breathlessly.

Ben shoots a look at Harold across their mother's back and Harold stares back at him, the packs over their shoulders swinging wildly. They run under the welcome arch, hit the wood of the dock and now see a woman standing at the peak of the submarine.

"Come on," she shouts, "we have to leave now."

"Wait!" Their mother shouts.

Suddenly their father grabs Ben's arm causing the three of them to snap backward and all four go down hard. Harold knocks into his mother, bounces off her onto his back so his backpack flies off and falls into the water. Their father pulls Ben toward him but their mother keeps her hold onto Ben's other wrist.

"Let go of him!" She shouts.

"You're not leaving!"

Ben hisses in pain and cries out, "Stop!"

"Let him go!" Harold shouts.

“You are not leaving!” Their father shouts again.

Then their mother pulls Ben hard toward her so their father loses his grip on Ben's arm. 

"Come on!" She swings up, pulling Ben to his feet with her. 

She reaches down to grab Harold’s arm, pulls him up and half carries him over her shoulder as she starts forward again. They run five more steps before their father pounces on Ben, yanking Ben's arm free of their mother's hand and slamming Ben down onto the dock underneath him.

"Ben!" Harold screams.

Their mother runs faster, wraps both her arms around Harold, holding him against her chest.

"Wait!" Harold shouts, reaching his arm back toward Ben. "Mom, wait!"

Ben pushes at his father's arms holding him tightly, tries to scramble out from under the two hundred pound plus weight of his father. "Harold!"

"Mom, stop! We need Ben!" Harold shouts again, tries to pull himself out of her grasp but she is not stopping. "Stop, please! Ben!"

Ben pulls himself half free, reaches his hand out toward the receding figures of his mother and Harold. "Harold! No, please! Harold!"

Their father stands, pulling Ben up with him and dropping Ben's backpack down on the dock, hand fisted in Ben's shirt. "Get back here!" he shouts.

Their father keeps shouting, the woman at the peak of the submarine is screaming, Harold looks over his shoulder and sees the edge of the dock coming. He looks back again, screams Ben name as Ben screams his back. Then their mother leaps off the dock and the submarine slams up underneath them. The wind knocks out of Harold and for two seconds he sees only the stars above him, not a cloud in the night sky.

Then Harold heaves himself up again onto all fours, staring back at the dock, reaching out his hand. "Ben!"

Ben reaches his hand out from his father's arms toward the submarine pulling away. "Harold!"

“Don't leave me!" They say together.

Their mother pulls Harold back by the arm, drags him toward the circular submarine entrance. Their father lets go of Ben so he falls to his knees on the dock. Ben and Harold stare at each other, eyes never breaking, until the last moment when Harold is pulled down into the submarine.

Harold fights them – does not want the sedative, does not want to sleep, wants to keep seeing his brother left on the dock before his eyes. Ben runs away from the house – from his father, from the abandonment, toward the unknown jungle. Then they force the pill down Harold's throat and Ben passes out just before the sonic fence with the dark, inviting jungle in his eyes. 

Harold dreams he sees a stranger in the jungle and Ben dreams of sinking under water.


	3. Over Land and Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lying in bed that night Ben says, “happy birthday, Harold to the air,” while Harold lies in his bed an ocean and miles of land away saying, “happy birthday, Ben,” to the darkness._
> 
> Ben and Harold separated and trying to find each other.

“We have to go back.”

Their mother sits on the edge of one bed in the hotel room they found for the night in a less ocean-side part of Astoria. She stands up again and paces toward the bathroom, not looking at Harold.

“We have to go back!” Harold repeats.

She sighs and shakes her head. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

“Mom, we can’t leave him!”

Their mother paces toward the beds then back toward the bathroom again, sliding the palm of one hand over her knuckles. “It’s not as simple as all that, Harold. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.”

“But we just left him,” Harold gasps. “We left him!”

“I know that, Harold!” She snaps. She plants her feet and puts her hands on her hips. She breathes in through her nose then finally makes eye contact with Harold. “But we can’t just go back.”

“Why?” Harold says, his voice pitching up an octave in pain.

“It’s…” Their mother rubs a hand over her forehead. “It was hard enough for us to leave and we can’t just sail back there.”

“Yes, we can! We have to! We…” Harold breathes hard, tries to slow himself down. “We went there on the sub and we left on it and we can go back on it now!”

“The submarine isn’t a free ride, Harold. It’s for Dharma use only.”

“But we are Dharma!”

Their mother sighs quietly. “Not exactly, honey.”

“But… but… we were just there; they’d have to let us back. And we can get Ben and we can leave again and…”

“Harold.” Their mother walks closer and kneels down in front of Harold. “I’m sorry, we can’t.”

“New people come to the island all the time!” Harold shouts and their mother draws back slightly. “Why can’t we just get on the submarine and get my brother?!”

“We can’t, Harold.”

“Why?”

Their mother rubs her hands down Harold’s arms in a soothing gesture. “Harold…”

Harold huffs loudly and pulls out of her arms. “If we can’t go back then call them!”

“What?”

Harold marches around one bed and picks up the phone receiver from its cradle on the bedside table. “Call the island!” Harold holds out the receiver. “The Flame has communications, Ben and I saw them. You can call them and they can send Ben to us.”

Their mother stands up again. “Your father might have something to say about that.”

“But you can tell them!” Harold shouts. “You can tell them to send him!” 

“Harold… I…” She swallows once, looks away and her voice becomes very quiet. “Don’t you know your father is the one they will listen to?”

The phone receiver drops out of Harold’s hand as he starts to shake. “But… we have to… he… we can’t leave him.”

Their mother turns her head back and walks over to Harold. She sits on the bed closer to Harold and pulls one of his hands into hers. “It is going to be all right. You will be with me and Ben will be with your father.”

Harold shakes his head. “No.”

“Things will be different now but…”

Harold tires to pull his hand away but she holds fast. “No.”

“But you are both going to be fine.”

“No!”

“Harold, listen to me. I know it will be hard.”

“Hard?” Harold finally yanks his hand free and stumbles back a step. “We left Ben behind with him!”

Their mother’s face steels over – a grim mask Harold thinks he has never seen before on her face. “If we go back, Harold, your father will not let us leave again.”

“He has to!”

Their mother shakes her head. “We can’t go back, Harold.”

“But Ben…”

“Your father will take care of him. Ben isn’t alone.”

“But…” Harold’s voice turns to a whisper. “Dad will hurt him.”

Their mother shakes her head. “No, Harold, he won’t.”

Harold feels like he cannot breathe. “He already has.”

She looks away for a second then meets Harold’s eyes again, her expression steady and calm. “This is a wakeup call, Harold; something adults need sometimes. Your father will be better now.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he has to.” She smiles. “I know the man I married.”

They stand still in silence for a moment. Then she wipes a hand across Harold’s cheeks over tears Harold did not realize were falling. He keeps staring at her – her smile, her confidence, how can she be so calm – but he cannot speak any longer, all that is going through his head is how very wrong he knows she is. 

The next morning Harold hears their mother on the phone when she thinks he is still asleep, asking over and over to talk to Dharma or Dr. Chang, “it’s important,” until she hangs up the phone with a sigh.

––––––––––––––––

“Where?” Their father shakes Ben by his shoulders in their living room. “Tell me!”

“Stop! I don’t know!” Ben gasps.

“Where are they going?”

“I don’t know!” Ben says insistently and tries to pull out of their father’s grasp. “Please!”

“You have to know!” He insists right back and shoves Ben out of his hands. “Where was she going to take you?”

Ben breathes hard and shakes his head. “She didn’t tell us.”

“Where were you going?! Where!” He shouts right in Ben’s face.

“I don’t know!” Ben shouts back, his voice cracking, afraid to move. “I swear, I don’t know!”

“Did she think you three could just leave?” Their father huffs in a harsh way, pulling back and pacing two steps back and forth. “You all need me! I’m the one that works around here and she just leaves! She thinks she could take you two away from me?” He huffs again and kicks the couch beside him making Ben jump. “You can’t just leave!”

“I didn’t…” Ben says quietly, sniffs, tears down his face. “I didn’t get to…”

Their father turns sharply back to Ben and slaps him across the face. Ben stumbles and cries half in pain and half in surprise. “’You didn’t get to?’ None of you should have even tried! Why would you? We’re a family!”

“Because… because you…”

Their father slaps Ben again and this time he falls down onto his knees, hand against the burning side of his face. 

“I don’t want to hear it!” Their father leans over Ben for a moment. “You should be happy, happy with what we have here. Your father has a good job, you’re getting schooling and the three of you think you should just run away?” He makes a scoffing noise and stands up straight again. “Run away and leave me?”

Ben stares at the floor – thinks about how their father has always said he hates his job and why do grownups have to lie – and breathes in and out, saying nothing, staying still. Their father paces some more and Ben glances up cautiously in the silence.

“Should be happy,” their father mutters. “What does she know? And why…” He huffs and suddenly looks down at Ben again. “Why would she leave, huh? Why?”

Ben knows the reason and he thinks their father must know too but Ben is a quick learner and knows that often grownups ask questions without needing or wanting an answer.

“She just…” He huffs then kicks the coffee table, whirls around and pulls Ben up to standing by the collar of his shirt. “Where did she go, Ben? Tell me, where!”

“Please…”

“Where! Portland? San Francisco? Where? Seattle? What was her plan?”

Ben shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Their father throws Ben back down on the ground and growls in a frustrated way. He turns away from Ben and runs his hands through his hair. They he turns back and snaps, “Go to your room!”

Ben jumps up and runs back to their room. For a half a second he expects to see Harold sitting on one of their beds waiting for him. Instead he sees Eight, sniffing at the air and nestled up against Ben’s pillow. Ben closes the door behind him and sits down on his bed, feet just touching the floor. He rubs a hand over his cheek and tastes copper in his mouth. He must have bit the inside of his cheek when their father hit him.

Ben lies back on his bed – Eight scooted to the side – and stares up at the dark ceiling. He does not look at the empty bed on the other side of the room or Harold’s backpack retrieved from the water at the dock. He just keeps staring up into the darkness as tears slip slowly down from his eyes into his hair.

“Please, come back,” he whispers.

––––––––––––––––

Harold and their mother move to Lassiter, Iowa.

“I’ve bought us a farm, Harold,” their mother says. “It used to belong to a cousin of mine.”

“A farm?”

“I grew up on a farm, didn’t you know that?” Harold shakes his head and she smiles at him. “Your mother comes from a big farmer family.”

They get the furniture and mementoes the family had put into storage before first going to the island and load it all onto a truck. They have all the ‘things’ they need, two beds, a couch, tables, chairs, even some lamps and plates for the kitchen. Harold forgot how many boxes of books and old pictures they’d left behind when the moved. 

“We have about two hundred acres,” their mother says. “We can grow corn and you can help me, Harold.”

“Corn?”

She nods. “My family grew wheat and we also had some cows. I was good with the animals.” She frowns for a moment and looks away. “Or was it pigs?”

They buy things on credit to fill the gaps – clothing, shoes, a truck, farm equipment. Their mother takes up a second job along with running the farm as an assistant on the weekends at a veterinarian’s in town.

“It does not take long to learn and I will need your help a lot,” their mother says as she inventories what farming supplies they have in the barn from the initial purchase, checking items off on a piece of paper.

Harold frowns. “What will I do?”

“Well, you can help me with the truck for one.” She smiles. “We know how you can take them apart. Good thing I’ve got you.”

“Better than if you’d gotten away with Ben instead, you mean?”

Her face falls. “I was trying to protect you, Harold.”

“Both of us?”

“Yes.”

Harold looks away. “You didn’t.”

She is silent for a long moment until she steps up beside Harold in the barn doorway. “It’s not easy, Harold. Life is never easy and we all make choices.” She puts her hand on his shoulder as they look out at the trees at the edge of the property. “Adults have to live with the consequences of their choices.”

“You mean leaving Ben behind?”

He hears his mother breathe deeply beside him and her hand clenches around his shoulder. “This isn’t forever, Harold.” Harold looks up at her and she looks down at him. “You will see Ben again.”

“He should be with us now, mom.”

“I’m sorry, Harold. But this is just how it is.”

They look at the trees, a bird flying by to land on one branch. 

“Do you know what that one is?” Their mother asks pointing at the bird.

“A robin?”

“No.”

“A finch?”

“Maybe.”

“Mom…”

She looks down at him. “Harold?”

“It hasn’t been that long since we left the island.” She sighs and looks away from him again. He touches her waist, tries to get her to look at him. “We could still go back. We could still get Ben!”

She turns and walks away from Harold back into the barn. She stops in front of the work bench, putting down the paper and leaning her hands on it. “I’ve tried, Harold,” she says softly. “But this is where we are now.” She turns and looks back at him. “This is our life.”

“I don’t want a life without Ben.”

Their mother’s jaw clenches then she picks up her check list again. “Go inside, Harold. You start school tomorrow. Check and make sure you have all you need.”

“Mom…”

“Go.”

In the evening Harold goes outside alone. He lies down in a small patch of grass and stares up at the stars. He finds constellations he knows, follows the tail of the big dipper. He does not need a book to know that each one shines up in the sky in its proper place. The stars still feel wrong.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits on the porch outside of his house. He should be walking to the school house right now. Lessons are going to begin in about ten minutes. He does not stand up from the chair however. He keeps listening to their father talking to Mr. Goodspeed inside.

“So, just Ben and I now.”

“I’m glad to hear about the opportunity for Harold though,” Mr. Goodspeed says. “He always seemed like a bright kid.”

“Definitely, and his mother is with him, so…”

“Sorry about that, man.”

“No, no,” their father covers up quickly. “She wanted to go. Had to have one of us to keep an eye on Harold with this special school, make sure he keeps up all the work he’ll have to do.”

“Right.”

“It’s just… well, Ben is…” Their father makes a casual scoffing noise that sounds very fake to Ben’s ears. “He’s just a bit jealous Harold got to go and he didn’t.”

Mr. Goodspeed makes a noise like comprehension and says, “Ah,” the way so many adults do when they know they are supposed to be interested and understanding.

“Worried he might try to run away. So if you could just keep an eye out?”

“Of course,” Mr. Goodspeed says. “No one can take the sub without authorization anyway and there isn’t another way off the island so I don’t think you’ll have to worry. Doubt anyone would let the boy just jump on it alone anyway, man.”

“Ben?” Ben looks up at the sound of Annie’s voice. She smiles at him then waves for him to come with her. “Come on, we have class.”

Ben looks down at his feet, kicking them slightly and clutches his bag against his chest. “I know.”

“You have to come.”

He looks up at her. “Why?”

She frowns. “It’s school, Ben.”

Ben stands up, puts his backpack over his shoulders then walks down the two steps to Annie. She smiles and suddenly squeezes his hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s not.”

“You still have school to go to, you still have me.”

He nods as he watches his feet. “Thank you.”

“Of course, I’m your friend. Friends help each other and even though Harold is gone, I’m still here.”

“It’s just…” Ben looks up as they walk, the school house coming into view. He glances at Annie then back toward the school house. “We’ve always been together.”

“Maybe they will come back.” Ben looks at her again. “I mean, can you and Harold really be apart?”

Ben cannot form a reply as they walk up the steps and into the school house. They take their usual seats, Ben in front of Annie and one empty seat beside them. The other students chatter and shift around, one boy trying to make a paper airplane before Olivia arrives. Ben keeps looking at the empty desk next to him.

“All right class!” Everyone quiets down and turns to the front as Olivia walks in with what looks like boxes of rocks in her arms. “I hope you are all ready for some Geology today.”

“Yes!” One girl with red hair near the front says while the rest of the class looks half skeptical and half interested.

Olivia chuckles as she puts down the boxes. “Thank you, Tina.” She pats her hand on the box and picks up the class roster. “Now, is everyone here…” She looks up, eyes coasting over them then pulling a post it note off her roster. “Right.” She puts down the clip board and puts her hands on her hips. “Just to make everyone aware we are going to be one less now in class.”

“Less what?” Jared says near the window.

“Was there a hostile…” someone whispers.

Ben’s jaw clenches and he looks down at his hands.

“Settle!” Olivia says before anyone can speculate more. “Harold and his mother have gone back to the mainland so Harold can attend a new school.” 

Half the class turns and looks at Harold’s seat as Olivia speaks, only a few even noticing that Ben is still there. Annie pats Ben’s arm quickly from behind him.

“However, we still have Ben with us.” 

At that everyone in front of Ben turns to look back at him, most with confused expressions. 

“Glad to still have you with us, Ben,” Olivia says looking directly to him.

Ben’s not exactly sure how he knows but from her tone, and the way she looks at him like she was just talking about the weather, Ben knows that Olivia must not have any brothers or sisters.

“I’m glad you’re still here too,” Annie whispers behind Ben and for the first time in days Ben smiles a little.

After school is over, after Ben rushes through dinner, avoids their father, he lies on his back outside in the back yard. He stares up the sky, tries to figure out if it has changed or not. He knows the stars are wrong, are moving with this island or with the sky or whatever it is that makes them change. This time, however, as Ben looks up at them, they feel wrong because of something else completely.

––––––––––––––––

“Good morning, Harold.” Harold opens his eyes to see their mother leaning down over him. “Do you remember what today is?”

“What?”

She grins. “Happy birthday.” She pats the sheets then stands up. “Get up; I’ve made you a special breakfast.” 

As she exits the room, Harold sits up and picks up his glasses off his bedside table. He looks across the room at the wall where a bookshelf stands instead of another bed. He stares for a moment, reads the titles then slides himself out of bed to get dressed.

In the kitchen, their mother puts a bottle of syrup down beside a stack of pancakes on a plate. Next to the pancakes is another plate with bacon on it and a small bowl of fruit. 

Their mother smiles and holds out her hands. “Come on, birthday breakfast.” Her eyes shift past Harold and she frowns. “Where is your brother?”

“Ben is here?” Harold says in surprise. He turns around, looks behind him, looks into the living room. “Where?”

“He’s…” She stops with her mouth half open then shakes her head. “No, of course not, Ben…” She clears her throat. “I’m sorry, Ben isn’t here.”

“Then why did you…”

“I’m sorry dear, must have been force of habit.” She gives him a thin lipped smile then holds out her hand to the seat at the kitchen table again. “Sit, eat, you still have to go to school.”

Harold feels deflated but he also knows his mother got up even earlier than farm life requires to make this for him. He sits down and picks up his fork. “Thank you, mom.”

She smiles. “Happy ninth birthday, Harold.” She picks up her coffee and takes a sip. “One more thing.”

“I have enough food,” Harold says as he cuts into the pancakes with his fork.

Their mother laughs as she walks back into the kitchen from the living room. “No, Harold, I got a present for you.”

She puts down the ribbon wrapped box 

And Ben takes it. 

Ben smiles at Annie on the swing beside him and pulls the ribbon off the box. He pushes past the tissue paper and pulls out two carved wooden dolls. He glances at Annie in question.

“It’s you and me.” She smiles. “That way we’ll always be together.” She pushes her swing just a bit back and forth. “And so you don’t feel so alone without Harold.”

Ben holds them up and turns then from side to side. Then he puts them back down into the box and looks at Annie again. “Thank you.”

She grins. “You like them?”

“Yes.”

“I made them myself, didn’t take as long as you’d think.”

Ben laughs once. “They’re great.”

Annie picks up the box from Ben’s lap then puts it down to the side. She pulls back then lets herself swing forward. She pumps with her legs and grins at Ben. “Come on.”

Ben smiles back and starts to swing with her.

“Happy birthday!” Annie says as they swing higher and higher together.

That night their father drinks through an entire six pack of beer as Ben does his homework and cleans up the kitchen. He looks at Ben when he is half through his last beer, practically passed out already on the couch. “It’s your birthday.”

Ben nods.

He huffs. “I forgot.” He takes another drink and frowns as he stares at Ben “Hard to be happy about it though, isn’t it, when your mother abandoned us?”

Their father does not mention Harold.

Lying in bed that night Ben says, “happy birthday, Harold to the air,” while Harold lies in his bed an ocean and miles of land away saying, “happy birthday, Ben,” to the darkness.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits at the living room table, books and note paper strewn all over it along with the telephone. 

Sixteen phone numbers on his list are already crossed out – four connected to Horace Goodspeed, two former addresses and two work numbers but no forwarding numbers left; five numbers from their father’s old address book which luckily was in one of the storage boxes but all proved to be of no help; two numbers which looked like they might be Dharma contacts in Portland but were disconnected; three numbers for the Oregon port authority, one number for the coast guard and one number for the Navy, all of which did not much like speaking with ‘a child.’

Harold runs a hand through his hair and frowns. He pulls the Oregon phone book in the middle of the table toward him with an aggravated huff. “Fine, fine.”

Harold flips back to the yellow pages and then on until he finds the letter ‘D.’ He scans the page for any company name which bears a resemblance to the word ‘Dharma.’ He finds an entry which reads Dharma Indian. Harold frowns but pulls the phone toward him regardless. He dials the numbers on the phone and waits through two rings.

“Thank you for calling Dharma Indian, our hours are seven to eight, Monday through Friday.”

Harold hangs up the phone and makes a big X over the entry in the phone book with his pen. He slides his finger over the page, up and down, turns the page again and again. Harold slams the book shut then stands up and walks to the other end of the table where one of their moving boxes sits. He puts his hand in, pushes up stacks of papers, a folder labeled ‘taxes.’ He found their father’s address book in this box, there might be something else.

“Come on.” Harold flips up more folders without labels. “Please… there has to be…”

Then he sees it; the Dharma logo peeking out from under a red folder. Harold shoves the papers and folders to one side of the box with little concern for their wellbeing. The logo is on what appears to be a small informational brochure. Harold snatches it out of the box, nearly knocking the box off the table, and opens it. The three pages include information about research opportunities, the founders Gerald and Karen DeGroot, some photos of smiling people and he recognizes Dr. Chang. On the back, at the very bottom of the page, is a phone number. Harold gasps and nearly drops the brochure in his excitement. Harold runs around the table, grabs the phone and dials the number with shaking hands.

The line connects and Harold has to control himself to just say, “Hello,” and not scream it.

“Thank you for contacting the Department of Heuristics And Research on Material Applications initiative, also known as the Dharma initiative.”

Harold frowns because he never realized Dharma was an acronym.

“Our recruitment office has filled our required allotment of recruits at the present time. Please check back at a later date for future enlistment programs. You may also send a resume for future consideration to our Ann Arbor headquarters. We appreciate your interest and hope to work with you to change the world. Namaste.” 

The phone is silent for a moment then a dial tone starts. Harold puts the phone back in the cradle and bites the edge of his lip.

“Harold?” Their mother calls from outside.

Harold starts in surprise, looks down at the mess on the table then starts to pull it all together in a pile. “Yeah, mom?”

“I need your help.”

Harold frowns, stacks the phone book on top of his list of failed numbers and the address book. “With what?” He puts the Dharma brochure into his pants pocket.

“We need to fix the tractor; looks like its leaking.”

Harold frowns, tosses his stack into the box of tax folders and assorted papers then puts the top on. He picks up the box, stows it in an unobtrusive corner then heads toward the side door. “Coming!”

Later that evening Harold notices the box has moved and he hears his mother on the phone in the kitchen, her voice soft but insistent. “What do you mean I have to be affiliated with… No, I’m not looking for employ… Please, that number was disconnected, I’ve already called it. No, I just need to contact the isla– no, no don’t transfer me, please… shit…”

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Annie sit together in a back corner of the rec center. There is a chess set in between them, two pawns taken by Ben and Annie’s knight in the center but in reality they are not actually playing.

“The submarine is the only way people leave.”

Ben nods. “There has to be a schedule somewhere.”

“Probably at the orientation building.” Annie fiddles with one of the pawns. “But that’s locked.”

“If they keep a schedule there can’t be just one.” Ben moves his rook in a legal move and takes out one of Annie’s pawns. “Or we could break in to the orientation building.”

Annie giggles. “Like we were spies.”

Ben clenches his jaw. “It’s not a game, Annie.”

She frowns. “I know. I just… even if we got the schedule, how would you get on the submarine?” 

“I could sneak on.”

“How?”

“I…” Ben frowns. “There has to be a way. My mom and Harold got on it.”

Annie purses her lips. “You said there was a woman helping them. Maybe she could help you?”

“Yes!” Ben says with a grin that fades just as quickly.

“What?”

Ben twists his fingertips around the arm of his glasses. “I don’t know who it was or if she’s even come back.”

Annie picks up the two captured pawns and taps them together. “Maybe she’ll try and find you? She would have seen that you didn’t make it.”

“We can check the manifest.”

“What?”

Ben stands up from the small table and takes the pawns out of her hands. “If all the trips the submarine makes have a list of who comes and goes then she would be on the list from that night!”

“Shh!” Annie hisses and points toward two Dharma researchers playing ping pong closer to the door.

“We should go now,” Ben whispers.

“It’s light out!”

“So?”

“Don’t people do crimes at night?”

Ben frowns. “It’s not a crime. I’m not going to steal it. I only need to look at it.” He takes her hand and pulls her to standing. “And it might be open now since its day.”

“But are we allowed to –”

“Please, Annie.”

She screws up her lips in indecision then her expression morphs into a smile. She nods and skips ahead of Ben, pulling him along toward the door. They walk quickly but don’t run toward the orientation building. There hasn’t been a new batch of recruits since Ben first came to the island so the building has little activity around it. However, a side door is open and they can see as they peer through a window that two people are inside. Ben recognizes Phyllis who usually works at the motor pool and Debra who is with medical.

“Not for three weeks and why is aspirin not a priority?”

“Relax Debra, it’s not like everyone doesn’t have their own bottle in their house.”

“Exactly,” Debra drops the clipboard she was carrying onto an empty table. “They steal them from medical and then I am left with a deficit.”

Ben sees Phyllis rolls her eyes. “Sure, Debra.”

“God, you are no help! Are you at least going to help with this?” Debra puts a box on the table. “There are five more in the back closet. We need to have the shots ready for when we get another batch of recruits.”

“I thought Goodspeed said we were putting a freeze on…”

“What?”

“Yeah, we have maxed out the –“

“No, stop, come with me. I told him I needed another doctor in case we…” Ben cannot hear the rest of what they say as they exit the building through an opposite door.

Ben and Annie look at each other and nod. They glance behind them, hunch down then scurry around the side of the building and through the open door. Once inside they stay low so they will not be seen through the windows from afar.

“Where would they be?” Annie asks, half to Ben and half to herself.

Ben looks around the room – three tables, television on the wall, cabinets, shelves, door to another room. Ben walks across the room stooped over until he reaches the back door and he stands up straight again. He walks into the back room where there is a desk and several filing cabinets.

“In here,” Ben finally answers Annie as she comes up next to him.

Annie walks over to one filing cabinet and opens a drawer at random. Ben lets his eyes run over everything until the word ‘travel’ pops out at him. He focuses and walks over to the drawer with ‘Travel forms and documents’ on the label.

Annie makes an ‘ooo’ noise and peers into the drawer as Ben opens it. “Maybe they have it by date in here? Or is there a section that says submarine?”

“Or both,” Ben says as he pushes back folders to expose the divider that says ‘Submarine.’

The section is organized into folders by year. Ben opens the 1973 folder and pages through the forms and documents. Then he finds a form with a familiar date.

“Here,” Ben says and pulls it out.

He reads down the page, something about ‘planned departure’ and ‘supplies.’ One the lower half of the page is a section titled: passengers and crew. There are six names on the list, four crew and two passengers each labeled with a job or purpose. There is only one female name on the list, one of the passengers, Amanda Patterson. 

“Did you find her?” Annie asks.

Ben nods but can say nothing. His fingers squeeze tightly around the edges of the paper as he reads the ‘purpose’ subheading next to Amanda’s name: “Research period ended. No return trip.”

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits at a table in the library. He has a tourist’s guide to Ann Arbor by his right hand, a stack of science periodicals by his left hand and a map of the Pacific Ocean directly in front of him. Harold had not really expected to find anything in the tourism guide so that was no big surprise as a bust. The science periodicals were something of a shot in the dark as well because Harold does not have a specific journal he knows to check nor an adequate time frame to work with. He can certainly check from the past year but how far back should he go? The brochure he found did not have a founding date for Dharma.

“What is even the focus?” Harold asks to the air as he closes the tenth science journal he found.

He just needs an address. If he can find out where the Dharma headquarters is in Ann Arbor then he can get there – a bus, a train, make their mother drive him – and talk to someone. If he can just explain that he needs his brother, needs him back. 

“Just an address,” Harold mutters and flips through yet another science journal with a cover story about pandas. He slams it closed – as much as one can slam a magazine. “Isn’t Dharma published anywhere?”

Then again, with the strangeness of the island, for all Harold knows their research was secret. It certainly seems that way with all the trouble Harold is having.

The map is an even crazier choice. The island exists; Harold lived on it. So it should stand to reason that the island would be on a map, right?

“But where?” Harold says as he drags his finger over the expanse of the Pacific Ocean on the map.

They were given sedatives for the trip to and from the island. Thus, Harold does not know how long the trip takes. It could have been thirty minutes or six hours. He assumes the island must be in the Pacific Ocean, any other ocean would be much too far for the trip to make any sense starting in Oregon. (At least Harold hopes).

“Unless it’s too small,” Harold says out loud.

Someone across the aisle from him hisses ‘shh.’ Harold shoots them an apologetic look then looks back at the map in front of him. He sees the Hawaiian Islands, Indonesia, and The Philippines. The island they lived on was special, different somehow and not part of any existing country as far as Harold knows. Harold folds the map in half and puts his hands over his eyes. He knows – he doesn’t need to check the map or the computer encyclopedia system or another book – he knows the island he needs to find is not on any map.

“Then how did Dharma find it.” Harold drops his hands and pulls the brochure out of his pocket. “How did you find it?”

Harold stands up, stuffing the brochure back into his pocket and walks over to the card catalog again. He did not bother to check ‘Dharma’ under subjects the first few times he has been to the library but it certainly cannot hurt to look now. He flips through the D’s all the way to the end just in case something is out of alphabetical order but nothing applies. The closest he sees is a book about religion in India.

“No,” Harold slams the drawer of the card catalog shut.

“Son!” Harold turns at the librarian’s voice a few feet behind him. He looks at her with wide eyes and she frowns. “I won’t give you another warning.”

Harold nods. “Sorry.”

He walks back to his table and stares at the stack of magazines, the half folded map beside it and books that lead to nowhere. Harold feels tears threatening in his eyes and all he keeps thinking in a loop is, ‘I wish Ben was here.’

When Harold comes home his mother is washing dirt from the fields off her hands in the kitchen sink. She tilts her head at him with a smile. “Where were you so late?”

“The library.”

She frowns but in a questioning way. “Why were you at the library?”

Harold stares at her for a beat then looks away. “Studying for school.”

“Ah.” She nods and turns off the water in the sink. “That’s great. Now, help me with making dinner, would you?”

As he lies in bed that night, Harold stares at the ceiling and wonders at his growing capacity to lie. 

He holds the Dharma brochure above his head, flips it open and closed again, turns it to the back then back to the front. He has the evidence in his hand, he had his very feet on the ground of the island, how can he really find nothing to get back to his brother?

––––––––––––––––

Ben waits outside of the Motor Pool. One of the blue vans is being loaded with items to be taken to the submarine scheduled to leave today. Ben licks his lips, looks behind him then turns back to watch the van. There will not be much to load onto the van as the submarine does more of bringing supplies to the island than from. 

“Isn’t there another box?” A man with caramel skin and hair as long as their mother’s asks.

“Earl already loaded the last one,” a woman’s voice replies from beyond Ben’s sight. “You can head down.”

“Thanks!” The man replies as he closes the back of the van. 

He walks back into the motor pool with his checklist. Ben looks left, looks right and takes his opening. He runs toward the van – holding onto the straps of his backpack – grabs the handle on the back door, swings it open just enough then jumps inside and closes it behind him. He waits for three beats not breathing to see if he hears any commotion, any sign he was seen. There is nothing. Ben breathes out again. He looks behind him at the boxes and squeezes his way between two of them so he hides behind them up against the back seat of the van. He looks under the seat, finds one of the tarps he knows are in most of the vans and pulls it over himself.

A minute later Ben feels the van shift and hears one of the doors open. “Be back in fifteen or so… yeah… I’ll tell him, yeah.” Then the person speaking gets into the car and Ben hears the door close.

The engine turns on and a few seconds later the car begins to move. Ben breathes in quietly and fists his hands tightly. After a short drive the van stops and the engine turns off again. Ben holds his breath and crosses his fingers. He hears the front car door open and close. Then a second later the back door of the van opens. Ben hears one of the boxes in front of him slide forward and out of the van. Ben waits a few seconds, listens for voices but only hears them far away. Ben peeks out from under the tarp – no one. Ben slides out from under the tarp quickly, jumps out of the van then turns around again to face the van. He picks up a small box then walks down toward the dock.

As he approaches the dock, a man with big curly hair – Ben thinks his name is Elmo or Elmer – looks up at him and frowns. “Hi, kid, what have you –“

“My dad asked me to help, Roger, he’s a workman?” Ben says quickly.

“Oh.” Elmo or Elmer looks down at his clip board then looks at the label on top of Ben’s box. “Right, got it.” He makes a check mark on the piece of paper. “Just take it on into the sub. Charles inside will know where it goes.”

Ben flashes his best smile. “Okay.”

Ben breathes in slowly as he walks out onto the dock – for a moment he feels the weight of their father pinning him to the dock again, sees Harold screaming over their mother’s shoulder with his hand stretched out – Ben blinks and keeps walking toward the submarine.

“Hey there, Ben.”

Ben stops short at Mr. Goodspeed standing directly in front of him.

He smiles wide and puts his hands on his hips. “What have you got there, man?”

“I… It’s…” Ben clears his throat. “I was helping with…. With supplies for…” Ben motions with the box toward the submarine.

Mr. Goodspeed glances half way over his shoulder at the submarine and nods. “Right.” He looks back at Ben. “That’s good but don’t you have school to get to?”

“Um… I… I guess?”

Mr. Goodspeed smiles again and calls over his shoulder. “Hey Baxter? Could you help with this?”

A moment later a man runs up beside Mr. Goodspeed, looks at Ben then takes the box out of Ben’s hands. “Sure.” Then he turns away again back toward the submarine.

Mr. Goodspeed holds out his hands then claps them once. “All taken care of! Now I think you’d better head to school. Olivia is going to wonder where you are, right?”

Ben clenches his jaw. “Right.”

“Great.”

Ben turns, fists his hands tightly around the straps of his backpack, and walks back down the dock and toward the road back to the compound. Mr. Goodspeed is still watching him when he looks back.

Ben does not go to school. When Annie sees him later, asks him what happened, he cannot answer her.

“You skipped school today?” Their father says as soon as Ben comes through the door of the house. Ben opens his mouth to retort but their father’s fingers clench around the beer can in his hand and Ben closes his mouth again without saying anything. Their father frowns and waves the hand holding the beer. “Well?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t feel well.”

Their father makes a face. “Didn’t feel well?”

“I went to medical and I’m fine.”

Their father huffs and takes another drink of his beer. “Go to school tomorrow.”

Ben nods and walks through the living room and back to his bedroom without another word.

As he lies in bed that night, Ben stares at the ceiling and wonders at his growing capacity to lie. He watches the shadows change on the ceiling, tears threatening his eyes at his aborted attempt at escape from the island. 

Beside him, Eight hops down the bed toward Ben’s feet. He sits up and picks up the rabbit, bringing him back toward the top of the bed. Ben glances for a moment at the window of his room and suddenly sees Harold’s face outside. Ben jumps up from the bed in surprise but moves too fast and trips forward onto his face. Ben shakes his head, blinks his eyes into focus and looks up. There is no one at the window. He stands up and presses his hands to the glass, looks out at the leaves, wind blowing and the jungle far beyond. 

“Harold?” Ben whispers.

He tries to lean to the side, see further out into the trees beyond his window.

“Harold?”

It was not his reflection he saw and Ben does not think it was his imagination, but Harold and his mother are not on the island either. So what – who – is out in the jungle?

The next day Ben packs a bag with his rabbit inside, gets the code to the sonic fence and ventures out into the jungle alone where he meets Richard Alpert.

––––––––––––––––

So, Ben is lost and Harold is gone – There is nothing they can do, nothing they can try. They are trapped apart and must live on alone.

Ben dreams he runs across the ocean toward the mainland which never gets closer while Harold dreams in the opposite direction, running toward an island he cannot find.

––––––––––––––––

Harold learns about farming from his mother. They start off small – vegetables, local markets – so they can build up capital and hire hands to help in the fields. They may not be a big farm but there are only two of them and Harold is a tad smaller than the average farm hand.

“But you’re the mechanic, Harold.” 

“I’m not actually a mechanic, mom,” Harold says as he finishes twisting in a new spark plug in the truck.

His mother laughs once. “I swear you’re going to be an engineer someday, Harold, with the way you can work with machines.” She turns the ignition key and the truck rumbles to life. She smiles at Harold through the windshield. “Better than some men three times your age.”

Harold smiles. “Thanks, mom.”

His mother turns off the truck again then climbs out of the driver side, closing the door behind her. She puts the keys down on the work bench and picks up a piece of paper.

“Okay, truck is all set. David and Kevin are on the field today.” She looks up at Harold. “You do your math homework?”

Harold frowns. “You have my homework on your to do list?” She just smiles and Harold nods. “Yes, it’s done. It was easy.”

“How long did it take you?”

Harold shrugs.

“Anyway.” She folds up the ‘to do’ list. “Should make a quick trip in to town, we need a new hose and…” She frowns. “I don’t have my keys.”

Harold frowns too. “Right there, mom.”

She stares at him. “Where?”

Harold points at the work bench in front of her. “There.”

She looks down and cocks her head as if it is the last place they should have been. “Oh, right, yes.” She picks them up and makes a small huffing noise. “Don’t know where my head it at lately.”

Harold helps the other hands in the fields, rides in the tractor, watches the corn grow from an empty field into tall stalks to get lost in that make him think of Halloween. It is absolutely nothing like living on an island, nothing like the ocean or the jungle. 

“What bird is that, Harold?” His mother asks as they clean up dinner on the back porch.

Harold frowns up at the tree in the dimming light. “A Mocking Bird.” He picks up his plate and makes a face. “Isn’t that kind of an easy one?”

His mother snorts. “Oh well, didn’t know you wanted to be quizzed so much after dinner.”

“What about that one?” Harold asks pointing at a small bird as it lands on a tree next to the house.

His mother stares at the bird. She presses her lips together and lets out a slow breath. Harold turns back to the bird then looks at his mother again. “Is it a Cow Bird?”

“Yes!” she gasps then smiles at Harold. “Yes, very good, Harold.”

Harold tries to think back to before the island, to a house with a grass back yard and suburban living – Ben sitting in the tree house beside him, reading books back to back, crawling into each other’s bed at night, Ben laughing the same way Harold does – then now, a farm, dirt roads and flat land with too much space between everything. Too much space between Ben on the island and Harold on land.

––––––––––––––––

Ben looks through the small number of books in the rec center. He finds three copies of Moby Dick but nothing aligned with what he is looking for. The school house book selection is even less helpful – yes, the books are academic but quite traditional and none relate directly to the island at all. To be fair, Ben has no idea if any of the research being conducted on the island has been published or even written down in a book digestible form. If someone wrote about their research here they would have to write about the island, and if they wrote about the island they would have to include the hostiles. 

Ben breaks into the orientation building and watches the film, just two sentences about the ‘indigenous wildlife’ as the reasons for the sonic fence.

“Liar,” Ben hisses to himself. Are all adults liars?

When his father is passed out on the couch – every other night, five nights of the week – Ben takes the Dharma orientation binder and flips through, tries to find references to ‘the hostiles.’ There is a section on security, the sonic fence, and the changes in the code each day.

“Security…” Ben whispers.

Ben checks every Dharma building in the main compound, tries to get his hand on procedural manuals – procedures for the submarine, for requesting supplies, for research documentation, for construction plans, none for the specific research stations or orientation films – only two, the initial island arrival film and the one for medical, neither of much assistance.

“Mr. Goodspeed?”

He turns his head as Ben come up alongside him. “Hey, Ben, what’s up?”

“I uh…” Ben clears his throat. “How are you?”

“It’s a good day, new project to start up at The Hydra.”

“Really?”

“Sorry, can’t tell you more, Ben.” 

They walk down the path toward the Motor Pool and Ben makes himself walk faster so he is a few steps ahead of Mr. Goodspeed.

“That’s okay, uh… there… there hasn’t been anything more with the hostiles lately, has there?” Ben bites the edge of his lip and wishes he could think up a better way to ask.

Mr. Goodspeed laughs and does not seem to notice Ben’s awkwardness. “No, no, things have quieted down. I know there was that one incident not long after you arrived but don’t worry about it.” Mr. Goodspeed taps the Dharma logo on his uniform. “We have things in hand. The truce is in place despite what happened…”

“Truce?” Ben asks. “What happened?”

Mr. Goodspeed’s face falls in the way Ben has begun to recognize in adults – ‘I should not have said that.’ He stops walking, looks away from Ben and clears his throat. He adjusts his glasses then looks back to Ben. “It’s not something you need to worry about, Ben. We are all safe here.”

“You said ‘truce;’ does that mean you talk to them?”

Mr. Goodspeed stares at Ben for a long moment then he smiles again. “I gotta get going, Ben. Research to do. You have a good day, stay out of trouble.” Then he keeps walking, his strides longer and a touch quicker than before.

Ben watches the jungle’s edge, sneaks into the basement security post to watch the monitors until Phil or Jerry yells at him to leave. He keeps looking, keeps rereading the same pages of Dharma binders hoping to see something he missed, something that will tell him who these people are, how they might be able to help where nothing else can.

Ben goes into the jungle, gets the new code every day and runs past the pylons. He hears whispers, voices just behind him, just to the side of him, and even though he keeps calling they don’t answer him, not yet. He knows he should be scared of the voices, and maybe he is, but they seem so much better than going back to that house with only his father, no mother and his brother gone – no Harold, no one to sit beside him, to think just like him, to share life with. 

He listens to the whispers and tries to answer, tries to understand, but the jungle keeps telling him to be patient in its silence.

“Why do you want to know?” Annie asks him, her eyes on the stars as they sit on her rooftop.

“Don’t you?”

“But what would you want to know?” She tosses a peanut at her mouth but misses. “They’re probably savages or something anyway.”

“But don’t you want to know more? Don’t you want to know who they are? Why they’re here? What… what they know?”

She gives him a confused look and tosses another peanut into her mouth, making it this time. “What they know?”

“Yes!”

She huffs. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Ben opens his mouth but closes it again with a huff. He thinks of Richard, Harold’s face at the window, the sounds of the jungle that would be a better home than any yellow building of Dharma. He shakes his head and looks at the stars again.

“Ben,” Annie says and Ben glances at her again. “The hostiles are out there.” She gestures toward the jungle. “We’re in here. We’re safe from them.”

“There’s been fights before.”

Annie shrugs. “The fence will protect us.”

Ben bites his lip, looks back at the sky, does not say what he thinks; ‘I don’t want to be protected from them.’

If Ben can’t leave then the island – if he is really trapped here – the hostiles could be his salvation.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits in the back of class at school. He finishes homework in class, visits the library every day though this school does not have a computer yet. He doodles octagons inside octagons on his note paper while the teacher talks, reads ahead in every book while the class is three chapters behind. 

“You used to live in Portland?” Trevor asks him.

Harold smiles. “Well, the suburbs.”

“But with big buildings like New York City?” Matt asks.

“Not exactly.”

The boys at lunch smile and preen and ask him questions about tall buildings, ‘busy city life,’ and the ocean. It's near Portland, right? Is it as big as they say? Have you been on a boat before? Aren’t there islands all over the ocean?

“You should read ‘The Lord of the Flies,’” Harold says and casually avoids their questions – the ocean smells like fish and salt and when you travel under the water you go to sleep and don’t know how far you’ve gone because the place you want to reach is a mystery.

Under his books, on his desk in class, Harold keeps magazines open with articles about new computer programing languages like C and operating systems like UNIX. He looks up books in the library on machine engineering, one newer volume about personal computer development and another about punch cards.

“And I finally got a separate room from my sister.” Kevin grins as he eats his sandwich. “Mom said she was getting too old or whatever.”

“Glad I don’t have a sister,” Matt says. “Brothers are better.”

“No way,” Trevor says. “All my older brothers do is beat me up!”

Sam snorts but just shakes his head. “Lucky you don’t have both.”

The other boys start to laugh, Kevin throwing chips at Sam and Matt making faces.

Beside Harold, Anthony frowns and nudges Harold. “Sucks to not have any brothers or sisters at all.”

Harold watches the other boys – smiling and laughing and so easily sociable, just as young as him but somehow worlds away and every one of them not right at all. “Yes, it does.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben spends as much time as he can away from the house. He studies in the rec center or plays ping pong with Greg or Aaron if they’ll let him; he visits Annie’s house or sits with her on the roof; he comes to school early or sits with his lunch out by the far pylons watching the wind through the jungle trees. He sits out on the dock over the lagoon at night until he feels himself falling asleep – imagines Harold seated beside him with his hand over Ben’s.

At home, his father is no better – worse even – than before they first came to the island as a family of four.

“You think life is simple, just go to school every day. And what do I do? I mop up that same room when you’re gone!”

Ben takes his dinner to his room, tries to slip past his father’s line of sight.

“Whole damn island is a trap. They say they’re doing important research but what have I seen? Nothing.”

Ben sits with Eight on his bed, door cracked so he’ll have more of a warning and does his homework. He writes out the taxonomic ranks of species – life, domain, kingdom, phylum – to give himself more to do, something to tell his father if he asks, something to give him a reason to stay hidden in here with his rabbit and the empty bed on the other side of the room.

“You’re lucky I don’t just leave you on this island alone, you know. Could go back to Portland and find something better than this.”

Ben almost says, ‘so why don’t you?’

When he sits on the roof with Annie, he starts drawing a map, the Dharma compound at the center and then paths leading out from there; the lagoon and submarine in one corner and the far pylon fence in another. He carefully sketches beyond that in the back of the rec center, tries to figure out land marks of the jungle beyond the fences. He puts a star on the spot where he met Richard. He makes a note of every place he can remember hearing the whispers, feeling the eyes of the people he wants to be on him.

At home, his father lies on the couch, drinks beer after beer and Ben wonders just what it is adults see in the beverage. It never seems to make them any happier.

“You look too much like your mother sometimes,” he says and keeps frowning like everything is Ben’s fault.

Sometimes they still laugh together, sometimes it can be happy. “Want to learn how to play chess?”

“I know the name of the pieces.”

His father smiles. “Well, it’s all about strategy, okay? The king is most important.” He taps the piece. “Everyone else protects the king.”

“Protect the king.” Ben smiles and moves forward a pawn two spaces. 

But usually Ben locks himself in the bathroom, opens the medicine cabinet and holds a piece of gauze against his bloody nose. He puts a band aid over the cut on his shoulder where he hit the corner of the side table. He stares at his reflection in the mirror – sees Harold smiling back at him, smiling from far away. Ben wonders how no one can see it; how can no one around him care?

He thinks of running, running to Mr. Goodspeed or Annie’s parents or his teacher Olivia or even Mr. LaFleur in security, just someone to tell, to help, to save him. But if they have not said something by now – because no one in Dharma really sees anything beyond their research notebooks and stations and no one in Dharma cares – if they have been silent for this long then what would they really do to help Ben if he asked? 

––––––––––––––––

Harold comes home from school on a Wednesday to find the kitchen filled with smoke.

“Mom!” Harold screams, throwing off his backpack. 

He runs into the kitchen and sees fire on the stove top, a pot that is half melted through in the middle of it and smoke billowing up to the ceiling. Harold puts his arm over his mouth to breathe and inches closer to the stove. He gets close enough to turn off the eyes on top then pulls off his jacket. He throws the jacket on top of the fire then jumps backward just in case he miscalculated. The fire disappears under Harold’s jacket, enough of an oxygen block to choke out the flames.

“Mom!” Harold shouts again, coughs twice. “Mom, where are you?”

There is no answer. Harold runs down the hall, checks her bedroom, checks the bathroom.

“Mom, please!”

“Harold?”

He spins around as his mother comes into the house through the door to the back yard. She smiles at him wiping dirt off her hands onto her jeans.

“Have a good day at school?” She sniffs and looks around. “Why is it so smoky in here?”

Harold huffs out a breath and stares at her.

Harold sits in the waiting room while his mother speaks with the doctor. The table in front of him has three magazines in a stack, all entertainment based. One of the magazines has a date from two years ago while another is from last month. Harold rubs one hand over the other then switches. He pulls his hands apart and puts his hands on the arms on the chair.

“Do you want something to play with, honey?” The receptionist suddenly asks him.

Harold jerks slightly in surprise but just shakes his head ‘no’ at her. He doesn’t bother to tell her that he is more than ten years old now and something to play with while his mother talks to a doctor about forgetting to turn the stove off so their kitchen catches on fire is hardly helpful. She would probably just go get a Mr. Potato head anyway. Harold has started to notice the older he gets that some adults lump all children in at the age five forever. 

“Time to go.” 

Harold jerks again, this time at his mother appearing at the entrance to the hall next to where Harold sits. Behind her stands a doctor with graying hair. He smiles in a thin line at Harold but it is obviously a polite smile, nothing happy or relieved or even sympathetic in his expression. Harold does not smile back and his skin feels like it is covered in tiny pins.

“Harold,” his mother says in the car as they drive back out toward their farm. “I am sorry about what happened the other day.”

“It’s okay. I put out the fire and the stove is fine.”

“No, Harold, it’s not okay.” She breathes in and Harold sees her hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Your mother has a problem.” She glances at Harold then back at the road. “And it is only going to get worse.”

“But the doctor can fix it?” Harold asks. “That’s what doctors do.”

His mother clears her throat and puts on the turn signal as they roll up to a stop sign. “No, sweetheart.” She looks over at Harold as the car stops. “It’s not something the doctor can fix.”

“What?”

“Harold, I know you’ve noticed and it hasn’t just been this time.” She clears her throat again and swallows slowly. “I’m… my memory, it’s…” She sighs and Harold can hear a catch in her voice. “It’s breaking down, honey. Now, it’s not going to happen overnight so I don’t want you to worry right now but…”

“I can help you,” Harold says quickly. “I can help you remember.”

“That’s sweet, darling, but the point is my memory is going to get worse over time and there is nothing we will be able to do to stop it."

“If you can’t remember there has to be something we can do so you can remember, right? We can fix it!”

She smiles and touches his face. “You can’t fix me, Harold.”

The next week Harold visits the hardware store in town. He picks rolls of wires and a soldering iron, finds some needle nose plyers and small light bulbs. His mother may think he cannot help her but Harold knows his abilities, he knows he can build things, he has read enough – he has seen what computers can do on the island – and if he can build her a memory then everything will be fine. He can build a machine to help her because if he has lost Ben he cannot lose his mother too.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits on one of the swings on the small playground near the Dharma residential houses. School is done for the day and Annie had to go home for a celebration dinner for her mother. Ben’s backpack sits near one of the metal poles of the swing set. No one else is on the playground; most of the other children went straight home after class and Ben has been sitting on the swing for a long time now. 

Ben is not really swinging, just moving a little forward then back with his toes still touching the ground. He used to enjoy swings a lot. He and Harold would complete to see who could swing higher, who was willing to jump off at the highest point, who could land on their feet when they jumped off without falling. One time Harold jumped off a second before Ben, twisted his ankle and ruined Ben’s own landing with their shared pain. They used to swing in time, matching up for down, just watching each other until one of them broke the spell. Swinging with Annie is not the same as swinging with Harold.

“Hi there.”

Ben looks up, the sun partially blocked by a woman with blond hair wearing a blue jump suit – she must work at the motor pool. Ben stops the slight movement of his swing but does not respond. She crouches down so she is eye to eye with him.

She smiles again and holds out her hand. “I’m Juliet.”

Ben takes her hand and shakes it once. “I’m Ben.”

“Yeah.” She nods. “I realized we hadn’t been introduced before.”

He frowns. “Were we supposed to be?”

She makes a strange face then laughs once. “Uh, I guess not but I’ve been here a while now and it seemed strange to not know someone with there being not so many of us.”

“Do kids count?”

“Count?”

“As someone?”

She makes the same strange face, though this time it looks almost sad. Ben wonders why he said that and his hands tighten around the chains of the swing.

“Well, I’ve met your father so I think I should know you too. How long have you lived on the island, Ben?”

Ben shrugs. “Long enough.”

She raises her eyebrows. “What does that mean?” Ben looks away – long enough to lose something, long enough to be alone, long enough to hate it. “Ben.” The tone of her voice makes Ben turn back. Her face has changed, like she is actually taking him seriously like adults never do. “Ben, have you…” Her voice gets a bit softer. “Have you been outside the sonic fence?”

A warning bell rings loudly in Ben’s head. “Once with my father. He had to make a delivery to The Flame.”

She nods but keeps looking at him. “Only once?”

Ben forces himself not to look away and thinks of what Annie might say, of what other children might say. “Why? Is there something dangerous out there?”

Juliet purses her lips just slightly and Ben knows she is not falling for his feint. “I think you know, Ben.”

“Juliet.”

Juliet’s face drops to neutral and Ben looks up over her head at Mr. LaFleur behind her. He looks at Ben with a hard expression then his eyes shift to Juliet still crouched in front of Ben.

“Juliet,” he says again.

“Ben?” Juliet says still looking at Ben.

“Juliet, you shouldn’t.” Mr. LaFleur says in a half whisper. “You’re the one that told me that, remember?”

Juliet breaks eye contact with Ben and dips her head slightly. She looks up at Ben again, smiles then stands up. “It was good to meet you, Ben,” she says as she turns away and walks over to Mr. LaFleur. 

As they walk away, Ben realizes she did not tell him her last name.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits at the table beyond the living room, the back door in front of him and the kitchen on the other side of the living room. He has always liked this spot because he can see into the living room, the kitchen and outside all at once. In front of him he is working on a proto computer. He knows it is not as high tech as the personal computer they had in school back in Oregon or the one on the island, but this one is special; this one could be a solution.

“Harold?”

He glances over at his mother as she walks into the room – sundress today, she must have to go in to town for something.

“What are you working on?” She asks as she pulls out a chair beside him.

Harold smiles. “It’s an array of flow….” He stops as he sees his mother’s brow furrowing. He leans back a little. “It’s a memory system.”

Her lips press together in a thin line and she nods. “Oh?”

“Watch,” Harold says, putting down his soldering iron.

He clicks the input lever to flash the light. His mother tilts her head. “M?”

He clicks again. “O?” and then “M?”

“Now look.” Harold changes the input, flips the other switch and the light flashes the same dots and dashes of Morse code back to her.

Her face spreads into a wide smile. “Harold…”

“It’s for you,” Harold says, “to help you remember stuff.” He glances at the kitchen, the walls repainted but still some bits of extra metal melted onto the stove. “Like turning off the stove.”

His mother nods and stands up. She steps a bit closer and runs one hand over Harold’s hair. “Harold, we talked about this. What’s wrong with me it…” She shakes her head. “It can’t be fixed.”

“But this can help you.” He points at the machine. “What if I could make a machine with lots of memory, one that could think?”

“Harold…”

“It could remember what you can’t. It could help you and I can just build better and better systems, computers even, just for you.”

“Harold.” She touches his arm then puts her other hand over his. “I know you’re afraid.”

“I’m not –”

“Harold, I’m still here. I am still your mother. What is going to happen will happen and we need to be ready but I’m not going anywhere before then.”

Harold clenches his jaw and just nods because he cannot voice his fears out loud – if Ben is trapped away and his mother disappears then what will Harold do then?

Harold sits in his room at night, reads ‘I, Robot’ and thinks about a future where the robots think for them and he closes the book only half way through. It is not a fantasy he wants. He thinks instead about sailing a boat out to sea until he finds the one place he cannot, the one person he cannot find.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Annie sit at a back table in the cafeteria with their lunches between them. Annie is eating her sandwich as if she hasn’t eaten in days while Ben mostly pulls pieces off of his sandwich and crumbles them up. His hip is still throbbing from last night and it is distracting him enough that he does not feel like eating.

“Does your dad ever talk about the hostiles?” Ben asks Annie suddenly.

She glances up from her chips and frowns. “What?”

“He works at The Tempest, right?” She nods. “So he’s seen some of them, right? He’s had to.”

Annie tilts her head. “I think he has but he doesn’t like to talk to us about it. He just tells my mom not to worry.”

Ben frowns and pulls another piece of the crust off of his sandwich. “What if the hostiles aren’t bad?”

Annie laughs once. “What do you mean?”

“What I said, what if they’re not bad?”

“You mean what if they are good? They’re called ‘hostiles.’”

“They were here first, weren’t they?”

“I guess but –”

“So doesn’t that mean that we’re the bad ones by invading their island?”

Annie frowns again. “Who says it’s their island? It’s not part of a country or anything.”

“Exactly why it must be theirs; they were here first,” Ben repeats.

Annie shakes her head. “But we don’t even know who they are or why they’re here. We’re here to do good.”

“The research?”

“Of course!”

“Annie…” Ben huffs and lowers his voice. “We don’t even know what the research is.”

“It’s important, Ben. Come on, why else would Dharma and all of us be here if it wasn’t? You said yourself before with Harold that the island is special.”

Ben tenses at the sounds of his brother’s name and looks back at her. Annie smiles and puts a potato chip in her mouth. “It’s important and even if the hostiles were here first, we’re here to do good.”

“How can you be sure when they are trying to fight us?”

“Our parents are here for the research and it’s important. I know it is. My dad says it is.”

“I…” Ben shakes his head and looks away. He bites the edge of his lip and cannot tell Annie what she has yet to figure out but Ben knows all too well – your parents are not always right.

Ben sits in his room at night, reads ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ and thinks about strange tribes and a flying island in the sky. He closes the book and thinks he must be on that island, flying through the ocean further away from where he would rather be, the one person he would rather be with.

––––––––––––––––

Harold looks up one day – the sun shining too brightly on the flat land outside, circuit board in front of him, a small tendril of steam coming up from the soldering iron and no one seated at the table with him – he realizes it has been years now since he has seen Ben, since he has been alone.

––––––––––––––––

Ben looks up one day – in class as Olivia talks about tectonic plates, Annie seated behind him writing out notes with a dull pencil, Ben with doodles of jungle trees in the corner of his page and the desk beside Ben still empty – he realizes it has been years now since he has seen Harold, since he has been alone. 

––––––––––––––––

Ben runs through the jungle with Sayid right behind him. They are cutting through until they can reach the north road toward the pylons. Ben has the code to the fence that day memorized, he just hopes no one thought to change it with their escape and the burning car. He keeps telling himself as they run that there has not been enough time yet and everyone is still going to be distracted by the car.

“Come on,” Ben says to urge Sayid on.

Sayid is only the second hostile Ben has met and for some reason he reminds Ben of Richard, dark and mysterious but speaks to Ben like a person and not a child. Richard is the one who sent Sayid, sent him to get Ben finally. Now is the moment, now is Ben’s chance to get out, to be free, to join the hostiles and be happy again.

Leaves whip by Ben’s face, the light of the moon enough to see by, then Ben trips. He moves to stand up but Syaid pushes him back making shushing noises. Then Ben hears the van on the road. They both stay still and wait. Ben hears the door open and Sayid stands up, walking closer to look.

“Jin!”

“Sayid?”

Ben sees the two of them step closer together but Ben cannot hear what they are saying. He knows Jin works with security but he has never really spoken to him. Is Jin a hostile that has been living with them all this time or is Sayid saying something to make him leave? Then Ben hears Jin say something about calling LaFleur and the radio crackles. Ben holds his breath. Suddenly Sayid hits Jin once, twice and Jin is knocked out on the road.

“Whoa!” Ben says as he comes out of the jungle onto the road. “Where’d you learn to do that?” He grins then looks down the road. There is no one else around. “Come on, we better go. He called LaFleur.”

He looks back and Sayid is still crouched low by the ground. “You were right about me,” Sayid says.

“What?”

“I am a killer.”

Ben stares then Sayid holds up a gun and Ben hears a banging noise. For a moment everything is frozen like time has stopped and the world is waiting for Ben to exhale. As he falls forward, the pain stabbing for an instant but only half there with the shock, Ben realizes Sayid just shot him and he wonders in the back of his head why Sayid betrayed him. Then he hits the ground.

And Harold wakes up screaming. For a second or two Harold cannot see, it is only dark and his torso feels like it’s on fire, his stomach and his chest. He has never felt something hurt like this before. He clenches his eyes shut and tries to make it go away, tries to think past it but he just gasps and cries and cannot focus on anything but how much it hurts.

“Harold! Harold, stop, calm down, talk to me, Harold!”

It takes Harold a long minute or two to realize the voice is real, it’s his mother; she is trying to hold him down by his shoulders and make him stop thrashing.

“Harold, what is wrong? Please, Harold!”

“Mom,” he manages to groan out. 

He gasps and shoves back the sheets of his bed to see what is wrong. There are no marks on him, no cuts or bruises or savage animal eating his intestines. He looks up at his mother crouched over him, her hands still on his shoulders.

“Something is wrong...” Harold says, holding his arms over his mid-section.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

“No.”

“What was it? Were you –“

“No, it wasn’t… a dream, it… it hurts,” Harold gasps and he tries to breathe normally but his body still hurts, his chest and his stomach. It feels worse than when Ben broke his arm, than when Harold fell off his bike on the pavement, than when their father first hurt Ben – and still does, Harold feels whispers of that too, more often as the years go by – worse than when Victor at school kicked him in the knee. It feels so much worse than any of those times. “Something is wrong with Ben.”

His mother frowns. “Ben?”

“Something is wrong with Ben… It… has to be…”

“Ben…” She gives him a look like she does not understand, like she’s forgotten what he knows she has seen before. “Ben isn’t here, Harold.” 

Harold cries, tears down his face and sweat making the hair at his temples stick down. “No… no…” Harold gasps and his vision does not seem right; it’s like he can see lights above him, people talking and he does not understand why the two of them have to be like this. “He’s hurt… Ben is hurt… something is wrong.”

“Harold, listen to me.” His mother grabs his face between her hands to make him focus on her. “This is not like when you were younger; this is not a game.”

“No…”

“Tell me what is wrong!”

“Ben…” Harold says and he feels himself falling back into some kind of sleep. “It’s Ben.”

Ben wakes up, he thinks he does, it’s hard to tell because he is still in pain but he also feels numb. He sees sky and sun and feels the ground under him moving. He wonders if any of this was worth it. He wonders if it is just him and his dad now – if his mother and Harold are really gone – then why do they hate each other so much? Why don’t they care about each other even more because they are all they both have?

Ben, more than anything else, wants his brother back.

Harold wakes up, groggy and sore and he is not sure where he is. Is he home or on the island? Is Ben finally back with him? He sees the ceiling of his room, feels the movement of a car, sees his mother asleep in a chair beside his bed. He wonders what Ben is feeling; does Ben know how Harold feels this too? He wonders how his mother cannot understand. He wonders why she is going to eventually slip away from him when she is all he has now.

Harold, more than anything else, wants his brother back.

Ben wakes up inside of some kind of hut as a man with thick curly hair sits down on a stool beside his bed.

“Hello, Benjamin.”

Ben realizes suddenly that his memory has a gap. “What happened?”

“You were injured.”

“How?”

“You don’t remember?”

He does not. “Where am I?” Though even as he asks Ben knows the answer.

“You’re among friends. We’re going to take care of you.”

Ben feels more and more at ease as he talks to this man, Charles Widmore, as he tells Ben how the island saved him. Ben cannot explain it but now something has changed, something about him. This place, these people, is where he belongs and he believes it more than anything.

When Harold wakes up his mother is not in the room. He feels a residual ache through his body, as if he has been walking or moving or doing something for days without end. He sits up carefully and the ache centers around his middle. He looks down, rubs a hand across his stomach but he can think of no reason why he would be in pain.

“Harold?”

He looks up at his mother in the door way.

“Mom?”

She rushes in, puts her hand against his forehead, looks in his eyes. “Honey, how are you feeling? Are you still in pain?”

“What?”

“You’ve been… Harold, are you all right?”

“What happened? I…” He looks at the wall and all he can think of is Ben – Ben happy, Ben with him, Ben far away and growing different every day but he does not know why. He looks back at his mother. “What happened?”

When Ben returns to Dharma a few days later – still no memory of how he was hurt – The Incident has occurred at the Swan, Annie and her family are gone along with half of Dharma and Ben is not one of these people anymore.


	4. Patience and Inspiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ben is twelve and Harold is twelve and they are growing older apart and they both keep thinking despite everything ahead of them, ‘I want you back.’_
> 
> Ben and Harold growing up and growing older apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am smudging phone and computer and radio technology here to try and make it work. I know some of it is probably not technically possible or who knows if it could be with the island. So I please ask you to be patient and suspend your disbelief.

Ben is twelve years old now and he knows why he is here, where he is going. He knows he has to be patient and the island is really where he belongs. The hostiles – not hostiles, his people – are who and what he is.

Harold is twelve years old now and he knows technology is the key, computers are the future. He knows he is smart and he knows what he can do. The only limit is what he can learn – what he can teach himself – to create.

Ben is twelve and he knows how many birthdays he has celebrated alone.

Harold is twelve and he knows how many birthdays he should have celebrated with someone else

Ben is twelve and he knows the road ahead of him is long and he knows he must be patient and he knows he will not waver on the path toward destiny because there is something more out there for him than Dharma and his father and loneliness and sadness.

Harold is twelve and he knows the road ahead of him is long and he knows he has a lot still to learn and he knows he is going to change the future with what he can do because technology makes more sense to him than his mother’s fading mind and empty plains and loneliness and sadness.

Ben is twelve and Harold is twelve and they are growing older apart and they both keep thinking despite everything ahead of them, ‘I want you back.’

––––––––––––––––

Ben knows he shouldn’t be doing this – knows they told him to patient and it has only been months so far – but as he walks through the jungle he does not care. The jungle feels like home, the whispers would feel welcome and he has to talk to one of them because there are so many questions he wants to ask. He does not know the way to the hostile’s camp – does not know what he should call them – but he imagines they will find him. Richard found him once. They took him in and healed him after whatever it was that happened to him. (His father said something about a van and a hostile and a fire but gave up just as quickly trying to explain to Ben how it was all his fault. What surprised Ben more at the time was how his father did not hit him).

“Hello?” Ben calls to the jungle around him.

He hears the sound of birds and then water. He walks toward the noise of the water. Everyone needs water and, unless they have a well somewhere, a river seems like a safe bet.

“Hello?” Ben says again.

He pushes aside leaves, the heat of the day making everything damp and the air thick. He slides his hand around a tree truck and comes to the edge of a small river – more like a creek. The water looks so clear, nothing like the ocean.

“Hello?” Ben says a third time, stepping closer to the water to try and look down the path of the creek.

“Ben?” He turns around and sees Richard on the other side of the creek. Richard presses his lips together in a disproving way. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

“I had to come. I…” Ben fists his hands around the straps of his backpack. “I have questions.”

“And they will be answered eventually.”

“I know but… but I was there at your camp and now I have to stay with Dharma.”

“Charles told you –”

“I know but… he barely told me anything, just to get better and…”

“Ben, right now, your place is at the Dharma Barracks.”

“Please, I…”

“Ben –”

“It’s all right, Richard.” A woman with blond hair walks up beside Richard and touches his arm. “I’ll talk to him for a while.”

Richard looks at her. “Are you sure?”

She nods then looks at Ben and waves him toward them. “Come over here now, Ben.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Eloise Hawkings. I am the leader of our group. You already met my fellow leader Charles, I believe.”

“Yes,” Ben says as he picks his way across the creek. 

Eloise holds out her hand for Ben as he gets close to their side of the creek. He takes it and she balances him until he steps back onto the ground. She smiles and continues to hold his hand.

“Shall we walk together for a while?”

It is then that Ben notices she is pregnant. He looks at her belly a moment too long then snaps his eyes up to her face.

“I… yes.”

She touches her stomach and her smile changes though Ben cannot tell what the expression is. Then she looks away into the jungle and the two of them walk forward away from the creek.

“Our people, your people now, Ben, we are here to protect the island.” She looks down at Ben. “We live here, the island cares for us and the island chose us.”

“Chose you?”

“It chose you too.”

“What do you mean?” Ben frowns. “It’s an island.”

“I think you know already that it’s more than that.”

Ben does not argue because, yes, he does know that.

“I know you have many questions and there are many things which are different and special about this island. You will learn as much as we can teach you, as much as we know, in time.”

“But…”

She looks down at him again – her hand tightening around his slightly – and Ben stops talking. She looks away again as they keep walking through the trees.

“We all have a purpose and we all have things we must do.” Her hand swipes almost absently over her stomach again. “We…” she clears her throat then continues. “We protect the island above all else. Right now, what you must do is stay with Dharma.”

“But…”

“You have a father.” Ben stiffens. “If you were to come with us now he would look for you.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“He would.” She looks down at him. “Even if our parents are not ideal, most know their purpose. Your father would try to find you, to find us.” She shakes her head. “We can’t have that.”

“No.”

Eloise stops walking and bends over slightly, not as far as eye level for Ben likely due to her large belly. “You will not be trapped with Dharma forever, Ben. It may be a long time and I know it will be hard.”

Ben swallows and tries to control the feeling of sorrow threating to well up inside him again. Eloise squeezes his hand – she has still not let go.

“But you are important. You are our eyes and ears inside Dharma.”

“I am?”

She nods. “I won’t be here much longer, Ben.” She touches her belly. “I will have to leave and I need to know the island is being kept in good hands. I need to know that everyone here will protect it and I need you inside Dharma for us.” She tilts her head. “Can you do that?”

Ben cannot explain the way she looks at him – confident, in control but also sad. 

Ben nods. “I can.” 

As Ben walks back through the jungle alone, Ben wonders what Harold would think about the people on the island; he wonders what Harold is doing right now.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits on the floor beside the table in the living room. The table is full from end to end with supplies. It has three different circuit boards, parts of one phone as well as their actual phone still intact, numerous tools and something that Harold melted into a blob of plastic by accident on top. On the floor, Ben turns pages in a technical manual from the phone company.

“The phone company?” His mother had asked. “Why would you want that?”

“To understand how it works.”

“Using a telephone?”

“The whole thing.”

Harold reads quickly about hertz frequencies then turns to an old copy of the Bell System Technical Journal and an article titled “In–Band Single–Frequency Signaling.” 

“Trunking…” Harold mutters and circles sentences in the article with a ball point pen.

Harold looks back at the technical manual in front of him, turns a page back and then forward again. He underlines some words then pulls out another magazine from under the large book. Harold subscribes to two science journals along with an underground magazine on, what it terms, ‘subversive technology.’ Harold would probably term it ‘advancements in technology’ himself. He’s always said, if they don’t want you to get inside…

“They should build it better,” Harold says out loud with a smile as he finds the article in the technological journal titled ‘Phreaking.’

“Harold?”

Harold looks up at his mother standing in the doorway to the kitchen looking at him. “Mom?”

“I was…” She pauses and glances behind her at the kitchen then back to Harold. “Don’t you want dinner?”

“We already ate, mom, remember?”

She frowns and looks into the kitchen again. Then she nods slowly and makes a small noise like a laugh. She looks back at Harold. “Yes, of course, so we have.”

“We could make dessert or something if –”

“No, no, Harold, I’m fine.” She frowns again and her eyes slide over the table above Harold. “Are you building a robot?”

Harold frowns in annoyance until he sees his mother start to smile with mirth. “Mom,” he groans.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she says as she walks away down the hall. “You have school tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Harold says as he looks back down at his article which is a profile on someone who refers to himself as a phreaker.

Harold knows telephones can be used to call anyone in the country. He could call someone in New York City or Dallas, Texas if he wanted. Some people can call long distance across the ocean as well. It costs money but Harold could find a way to call Europe if he so wished. Maybe that means he can find a way to call the island.

“Phreaking…” Harold mutters, reading on through the article for the third time. “Matching the tones.”

He looks at the telephone manual again and realizes he does not quite have the right section of the book. If he wants to skip over the telephone system of phone connections and middle men and line sharing then he has to match the correct hertz tones through the phone line. 

“Then I could call Paris,” Harold says with a chuckle.

He needs something to make the tones with through the phone lines and connect wherever he wants.

Harold frowns and looks up at the empty living room, the sun down outside the window now. “Maybe a whistle?”

As he picks up another journal, Harold wonders what Ben would think about his project; he wonders what Ben is doing right now.

––––––––––––––––

Ben works in the living room with the coffee table in front of him. He taps his heels together and wonders if Harold is growing at tall as he is. He always assumed they would keep looking the same on and on forever but now he has no way to be sure. It is not the most important thing but he wants to see Harold as tall as him; he wanted to watch the two of them change together.

“Does he still need his glasses?” Ben mutters to himself.

The past year or two Ben has needed his glasses less and less. He still uses them sometimes for reading but the whole thing does seem counter intuitive. Aren’t parts of your body supposed to get worse as you age? 

Across the room, his father makes a noise on the couch. Ben glances over but his father is still very much passed out.

Ben leans forward over the table, rubs a hand over his eyes then goes back to his algebra homework. There are less children, less teenagers, on the island now. Many of the families that left after The Incident never came back and the new people coming to the island rarely have children. (Annie did not come back). Ben is the oldest of the children left now so he does not go to class with them. He meets with Olivia every other day of the week for what she calls ‘independent study.’ She makes it sounds as if Ben has a choice for how he learns. More than anything he reads; he reads absolutely everything he can. He has probably read every book on the island at this point – at least within Dharma.

His father makes another noise on the couch, shifting so he knocks an empty beer can off onto the floor. Ben closes his eyes and grits his teeth together. When he opens his eyes again his father still sleeps.

“Dad?” he whispers.

His father does not move.

Ben taps his pencil on the paper in front of him but keeps watching his father. He breathes evenly, some hair fallen in his face. Ben tries to imagine his father doing algebra homework, tries to imagine him reading James Joyce or Hemmingway or even Jane Austen. He tries to imagine his father happy or pleasant or just as a decent man. Ben frowns and looks back at the numbers and equations on the paper under his pencil. He tries to imagine Harold completing the same work, answering for X with their mother seated beside him.

Ben looks up at his father again and whispers, “I hate you.”

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits in the local library. The librarians all know him by name now and sometimes have new science and technology journals on hold for him when he arrives. The older woman, Diane, with the white hair likes him best and brings him tea though technically they are not allowed to have drinks in the stacks. The man, David, with the bushy mustache sometimes sits with Harold and talks about programing. He has been taking some new courses two towns over and Harold is the only one who understands what he is talking about.

Tonight, Harold writes in a notebook with only one science journal next to him. He finished reading it an hour ago – took some notes to assist with his own projects later. He wonders if he should get another magazine subscription but he also does not want to add something to his mother’s list of things to remember. In his notebook, Harold writes out lines of code. He has read about a number of programing languages by now but they do not have a computer at home. Harold has been looking around, asking David, checking with other schools; there has to be somewhere he can find a computer to practice on, to get a better feel for it. He can write out programing ideas as much as he wants but on paper they are only ink.

“Harold?”

Harold looks up and sees Monica looking down at him. “Hi.”

“It’s closing time.” She holds out her hand. “Got to get going.”

Harold sits up in his chair and puts down his pen. He picks up the magazine and hands it to Monica. “Already?”

“You’ve been here about three hours, you know.” She tilts her head and gives him a disapproving look. “Your mother is going to be worried.”

Harold presses his lips together, nods then closes his notebook. Monica watches him for a moment then turns away and walks back toward the front desk. Harold puts his notebook away in his thin back pack. He slips his arms through the straps and walks toward the exit. Outside the air is cool, the stars are bright and Harold thinks about Ben. He thinks about Ben and his father standing on the dock. He always sees his father on the dock, something fearsome chasing right behind him with a hand reaching out. Was his father always someone to be feared? Were there not times when he loved his father? Harold remembers Oregon and knows they were happy once, all four of them. 

“Good night, Harold!”

Harold sees a girl from his class leaving the library; her name is Alice he thinks. She waves at him and smiles wide. Harold waves back but does not move.

Then Harold turns the other way and sees the payphone beside the building. Harold reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out the whistle he bought. He looks down at it, looks up at the payphone again then walks over. He picks up the phone receiver and blows a tone with his whistle. The phone makes an odd noise and Harold hears a connection. His heart beats faster; he dials the country code for japan then hears the sounds of connection again.

“Oh my…”

Harold breathes in sharply and picks a number at random. (He should have looked up something ahead of time). The phone makes another noise then a recorded voice says something to him in Japanese – probably, ‘this number is not registered.’ The connection disconnects a moment later. Harold hangs up the phone but he is grinning. He might not have picked a real phone number to call but he certainly called Japan.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits on the floor of his room with the door closed. He expands his map of the island, changes parts he knows now are wrong, adds parts of the jungle where he has met Richard or Eloise or Charles. He does not write their names on the map anymore – it is not safe, he has to keep secrets, to lie. Instead he draws symbols and he knows what they mean. By now he has had to combine a number of sheets of paper to make it all fit.

“The island…” Ben whispers and thinks about how he has never been to the beach of the island.

If he stood on the beach – saw the wide open ocean – he thinks somehow maybe he could see Harold on the other side. Ben wonders if Harold stands on the beach and tries to see him over the water.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits on the floor of his room. He has one of their telephones in front of them. The casing is to the side and the wires are exposed. Harold keeps testing tones, switching wires and plugging the phone back in to the wall over and over again to see what has changed; to see if he can call further.

“London?” Harold whispers and thinks about calling a ship out at sea and he wonders how long it has been now since he has seen the sea.

If he stood on the beach – saw the wide open ocean – he thinks somehow maybe he could see Ben on the island. Harold wonders if Ben stands on the beach and waits for him to come back.

––––––––––––––––

Ben washes dishes in the sink. He does not often think of his mother – not like he thinks about Harold, all the time, the only thing off of this island now he cares about – but in his memory he sees her here. Perhaps it is because the first time his father hit his mother she was washing dishes. Perhaps it has more to do with the idea of mothers cooking and cleaning. In his head she is just a blur now, a memory of a person that might not completely be who his mother was. Was she just the one who washed dishes? Was she just the one who was kind while his father is cruel? Was she just the one who ran away with Ben’s brother?

“Are you done yet?” Ben’s father rasps from the other room.

Ben blinks but does not look back. “Not yet.”

“Pft.” Ben hears the sounds of glass on the table and his father is drinking straight liquor tonight. “Your mother would be done.”

Ben pauses and wonders insanely for a split second if his father can read his mind.

“Sorry,” Ben mutters as he puts the second to last dish in the drying rack.

“Huh, he’s sorry.”

Ben picks up the sponge again and wishes he were out in the jungle, silent and dark.

“If you’re sorry then do something about it!”

Ben wants to say, ‘what do you think I’m doing’ or ‘I am cleaning the dishes’ or ‘how about you clean them, you bastard.’ Instead he just repeats, “Sorry.”

Then a bottle suddenly smashes into the cabinet beside Ben's shin. Ben jumps to the side, splashing water and whirls around. His father stands in the kitchen doorway, off balance and breathing heavily. He takes a step into the kitchen and Ben steps to the right, further away. His father steps again and so does Ben. Neither move for three breaths, then his father takes a giant step forward and pins Ben against the cabinet with his hands around Ben’s throat.

“You!” His father hisses. “She left!”

Ben groans and tries to push away but his father is leaning heavily against Ben with all his weight. His father’s hands are tight; Ben can barely breathe. He pulls at his father’s hands, claws at his skin so his father starts to squeeze harder.

“Just you... she left...” Then his father staggers to the side.

His hands snap off of Ben’s neck so Ben starts to cough and breathe deeply as he can, ragged and harsh to his own ears. Before Ben can move, however, his father whirls back around. He grabs Ben's collar this time and slams him into the cabinet. 

“She left me...” He leans heavily on Ben's small frame so the edge of the counter digs painfully into Ben’s back. He feels glass from the broken bottle stabbing him somewhere.

“Stop!” Ben gasps.

His father leans harder. “She left just you.”

Suddenly, Ben shoves his father’s shoulders hard and his father falls back, knocking into the edge of the door frame and down onto the floor. Ben crumples to the floor gulping in air, pain in his back.

“She left _me_ with _you_!” Ben gasps. His father stares at Ben, shaking his head once to focus. He does not try to get back up. 

Ben stares at his father, taking deep breaths, trying to push away the pain with air. “She took Harold, she took _my_ brother.” Ben gasps hard because it hurts and not just the physical pain. “She left me alone and I still... and I still like her more than you!”

––––––––––––––––

Harold and his mother walk the dirt path out to the east field. Two of their farm hands Brian and Ted walk ahead of them. Brian reminds Harold of Annie in the way he talks, honest and trusting and always smiling. The four of them are harvesting today and, even now after years of crops and changing seasons, the idea of ‘harvesting’ still feels surreal to Harold. 

“Do you remember the old house?” Harold says to his mother.

She glances at him with a small smile. “Which one?”

“In Oregon.” He glances at her then watches his feet again. “You know, in the suburbs.”

She nods as they walk but waits for him to go on.

“It’s just weird, you know.”

“Weird?”

“We grew up just buying food at the grocery store.”

“We still do that, Harold.”

“Yeah, but.” Harold waves a hand at the stalks of corn in front of them coming closer as they walk. “But now I see where it comes from.”

“You’ve always known what farms are, Harold.”

Harold nods. “Yeah, but it’s not the same, not at all. We…” He sighs. “We went from Oregon in the suburbs to a jungle island to a farm in Iowa. It’s all so…”

“Different?” His mother fills in. Harold looks at her and she looks back at him. She shrugs. “And after this you will go somewhere else.”

He frowns at her and she chuckles once. She turns and looks back out ahead of them, Brian and Ted good naturedly slapping each other on the back. 

“I know you won’t be here forever, Harold.” She says. “You are smart, very smart and a farm in Iowa is not where you are going to stay for the rest of your life.”

“No?”

She looks at him. “Definitely not. You’re destined for great things.”

“Did you think that when we were growing up? Did you think we were ‘destined for great things?’”

She frowns. “You and I?”

Harold huffs. “No, Ben and I. I mean… If I’m destined for something then I know Ben is too.”

She stares at him for a long moment, her pace slowing. “I… I don’t…”

Harold swallows slowly and stops walking. “Ben, mom, my brother.”

She blows out a breath and nods quickly. “Yes, ha, yes, of course. The two of you.” She shakes her head. “Walked on the same day… of course….”

She starts to walk again down the path while Harold stares after her, his teeth clenched tightly together.

––––––––––––––––

Ben paces back and forth over the jungle underbrush, tangled roots and fallen leaves, a touch of moisture in the air.

“Ben, stop pacing.”

Ben shakes his head, crosses his arms and keeps pacing. “You don’t know what it’s like, Richard.”

“I know it’s difficult…”

“Difficult!” Ben huffs. “I’m…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m trapped there!”

“I know.”

“I can’t sneak out here often.”

“And you shouldn’t.”

“But I can’t stand it there. I can’t stand them! I’m alone or I’m with…” Ben breathes in to try and calm himself down as he keeps pacing, rubs his hand absently over a bruise on his arm under his shirt. 

Richard’s eyes follow Ben as he paces but Richard does not move. “I told you the first time we met you would have to be patient.”

“Patient!”

“Yes.”

Ben stops walking. “When adults say ‘be patient’ they don’t usually mean for years and years!”

“There is nothing usual about this island, Ben, and you know that.”

Ben blows out a slow breath of air and drops his arms. He nods his head once and looks away. “I know.”

“Things have been growing more unstable.” Ben looks at Richard again as he speaks. “Dharma’s experiments, the supposed truce between our two groups.”

“Supposed?”

“I think you know both sides haven’t kept perfectly to their words.”

Ben nods again. “But there hasn’t been –”

“Dharma takes people.”

Ben blinks. “What?”

“Not often and not forever but people have gone missing and when they come back something is wrong. We’re worried Dharma has been trying to run experiments on us; to learn more about us or the island.” Richard shakes his head. “We don’t know.”

“Are you serious?” Ben says aghast.

“They have a number of their research stations across the island; any one of them could be used.”

“But… experiments on people?”

Richard shrugs. “It’s hard to be sure.” Richard puts his hands together and steps closer. “Regardless this makes your position even more important. You are inside. They think you are one of them. You can find out just how they are breaking the truce.”

“What can I do?”

“Listen, visit the stations; find out more about what they all do.”

Ben nods and Richard smiles. “This can’t go on forever, Ben, this rivalry, this attempt to share the island.” Richard looks away for a moment into the jungle then looks back to Ben. “This is not a place for them.”

“I know,” Ben says and he is certain of that though he would not be able to explain why.

“So, can you be patient, Ben?”

Ben swallows and nods again. “I… I can. I can try. I just…” He sighs. “I just don’t know how much longer I can take it.”

Richard tilts his head. “I don’t have a timeline for you.” Ben sighs heavily and puts his hands over his face. “But you have to keep going.” Ben drops his hands and looks at Richard. “We all have to play our part to protect the island.”

“Can I ask you something, Richard?” Ben says.

“What’s that?”

“Why do you always talk to me like I’m an adult?”

“I’d say you’re pretty close to one now, wouldn’t you?”

“But you always have, even when I first met you when I was nine; you took me seriously right away. Adults never do that.”

Richard is silent for a minute then smiles. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Back at Dharma, Ben talks to Mr. Goodspeed then cautiously asks his father. Mr. Goodspeed agrees and his father is mostly indifferent. Ben gets a job with Dharma as a workman like his father.

––––––––––––––––

Harold left messages on a safe voice mailbox he learned about through another phreaker, a bankrupt construction company in Montana, for weeks trying to find someone on the west coast who could help him. He finally heard a message back before that voice mailbox was cut off. It took him a couple months after that but he found the same phreaker; it’s hard to make contact just through the phone lines but Harold knows a number of people in the community now through the publications and his own forays to see how far he could go. Harold told the man – it could be woman but he called himself ‘the king of tone’ so Harold doubts it – that he had a challenge for him.

“To try and find a signal somewhere in the pacific ocean coming from an island.”

King of tone – Harold really does not like the nickname – countered that they would need something more concrete, a country code or a phone number. 

Harold suggested something quite mad now that he looks back on it; he suggested a bridge. “Normally bridges are only between phone lines so phreakers can talk live, right?” He said in a message he left. “But we might be able to connect a phone line to a conventional radio transmitter to broadcast a broader signal, not just to landlines.”

Basically using a third party, Harold is hoping to connect to a radio transmitter on the coast that can broadcast a message and reach far enough to be picked up the island. He knows The Looking Glass station has – had at least – a beacon so the submarine could find the island. So The Looking Glass must have radio transmitters which connect to the Flame and thus can communicate with the outside. If the island picks up his message, a message that Harold will make certain they cannot ignore, they will answer back.

Harold rubs his face and looks down at the phone. “This is crazy.”

He glances down the hall and sees the light under the door in his mother’s room is out now. He looks back at the phone then up at the clock on the wall. They set up a time to meet and the number for Harold to call that could be bridged into the radio transmitter and broadcast. He calls, leaves the message and then it can be broadcast on a loop.

Harold blows out a breath of air then pulls out his whistle. He blows a tone into the phone, hears the sound change then dials the number. It takes a moment then he hears it connect. 

“Attempting to contact Dharma on the island. Attempting to contact the Looking Glass Station. Please respond upon receipt of this message. This is Harold…” Harold pauses, his eye catching his mother’s bird book and he smiles. “Harold Finch, message of the upmost importance. Attempting to contact Dharma on the island. Please respond.”

Then Harold hangs up the phone.

Four weeks later, Harold calls the voice mailbox they chose as a drop and there is a message waiting for him: “Reply received: Please respond in two months from the date of this message sending on same frequency. Reply to Ben.”

Harold nearly falls over he laughs so hard with surprise and joy.

––––––––––––––––

Ben takes his father’s place one fortunate day on a supply run to the Flame and that is how he hears about the strange message received via The Looking Glass.

“Radzinsky?”

“Linus?”

‘One of us,’ Ben thinks as he walks in with the box of food supplies. “Yeah.”

Radzinsky walks into the main room from the kitchen to the right. He frowns when he sees it is Ben.

“Where’s your dad?”

“There was something with the polar bears he needed to help with.” Ben shrugs. “So they sent me instead.”

“We need more workmen,” Radzinsky mutters as he takes the box from Ben and walks it into the kitchen.

“Have another box for you.”

“Is it about the Swan?”

Ben frowns. “What?”

Radzinsky huffs and shakes his head. “Just bring it for me.”

Ben smiles in a thin line. “Sure.” He really hates Radzinsky.

Ben walks back out to the van to get the second box. He glances around the area – still the cows – and looks up at the huge satellite dish on top of the building. He remembers when he came here with Harold, saw the computer and the communications to the outside. Ben stares at the dish for a moment then grabs the second box from the van.

Back inside the station, Ben puts the box down on the small table next to the couch. He glances at the side door to the computer room. He tried to come here several times in the weeks and months following the flight of his mother and brother. Once a few years ago he even made it here but was unable to access the outside communications. As he has heard Radzinsky and others complain about numerous times, communication to the mainland is ‘unreliable.’

“Is that everything?”

Ben turns back to Radzinsky who is beside him again. Ben points to the box. “I brought the requisition with it; you can check for yourself.” 

Radzinsky makes a face which Ben thinks could be described as ‘arrogant disgust.’ “Maybe I will.”

“Look, it’s all there, okay?” Radzinsky looks up at Ben again, clearly surprised Ben decided to defend his competence in packing boxes. “As for the Swan, I would assume those supplies will be taken there. It’s nearly done, isn’t it?”

Radzinsky frowns. “Yeah, nearly.” He glances down at the box then up at Ben again. He must decide that Ben is reliable enough because he does not open the box. 

“Have you had any luck with the communications?” Ben asks casually.

Radzinsky gives him a look. “What?”

“Last I heard it was being spotty, right?”

Radzinsky scoffs. “It always will be because of the changing location of the island.”

Ben blinks but wisely decides to not follow up on that.

“Though received something weird the other day,” Radzinsky says almost as an afterthought as he opens the box. 

“Something weird?”

“It wasn’t on the right channel but whoever it was knew to ask for Dharma; said something about contact Harold Finch and mentioned the Looking Glass.”

Ben’s eyes widen and his body tenses all over – the Finch is their mother’s favorite bird – but he keeps his mouth shut.

“So there might be something that needs to be realigned.” Radzinsky continues then huffs again. “Or the Looking Glass has changed the frequency they are using.”

Radzinsky looks up suddenly at Ben as if he knows he said too much. Ben tries very hard to keep his face impassive and uninterested; he does the best imitation of his father he can muster. Radzinsky must buy it because he waves a hand very much like ‘you’re dismissed.’

“Don’t you have something to send back to the barracks?” Ben improvises suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

Ben keeps his gaze. “Mr. Goodspeed said you had some revision plans drafted for the swan.”

Radzinsky frowns again. “What is he talking about?” Radzinsky huffs and marches into the communications room, Ben following after him.

Radzinsky picks up one of the sets of headphone and patches through a call to the barracks. “Yeah, yeah Goodspeed.”

As Radzinsky talks on the line, Ben looks carefully around the room. On the monitors across the room all of the screens are viewing locations on the island but he also sees the light for the external island communications is activated. He looks around the computer desk where Radzinsky sits. There is a log of dates and schedules. Then a print out with the word Harold on it catches Ben’s eye. He suddenly holds his breath.

“Fine, fine.” Radzinsky stands up. “All I want is a secure hatch. Need a new plan for that because we blew up the old one?” He marches out of the room but this time Ben does not follow him.

Ben takes Radzinsky’s seat quickly and grabs the print out. The message is definitely from a Harold. He knows it cannot be a coincidence; it has to be his Harold. The message is dated five days ago and it has a frequency indicated. Ben keys in thirty–eight on the computer for mainland communication, turns on the radio uplink and punches in the frequency. He pulls the headphones on, glances quickly at the door, then speaks into the headset microphone.

“Please respond in two months on same frequency from the date of this message sending. Reply to Ben.”

Ben hears footsteps approaching and he cuts the link, pulling the headset off. He can only hope someone was listening.

“Hey.” Radzinsky appears in the door way. “Got what Goodspeed wants, all right?”

Ben nods and steps around the desk. He takes the plans from Radzinsky and heads back to the van. The print out of Harold’s message is in his pocket and it burns like the sun on the horizon.

––––––––––––––––

“Hello?”

Harold never thought it would work. Of course, the phreaking bridge had connected to the ship to shore transmitter and he had left a message then received one and all the signs said 'it is working.' Then he made the connection again on the proper day and heard the line connecting. Yet, somehow, he had not really believed it.

“Yes, hello?”

Ben never thought it would work. The message had been so out of the blue, so chance and he had the one minute to send a message back. Then on the proper day he had arranged a delivery, Radzinsky had been reassigned and Ben convinced the new guy he was needed at the barracks. Yet, somehow, he had not dared to hope for it.

“Ben?”

“Harold?”

It is all so lucky – or fate, or destiny.

“Ben, it's really you?”

“Harold, how did you?”

“I tried to find –”

“I tried to leave –”

“It's you, I can't believe –”

“It's been so long –”

“To hear –”

“– your voice.”

They both breathe out audibly and laugh once. 

Ben curls his fingers around the microphone of the headset listening to the soft sound of Harold breathing on the other side. “Harold, I... I don't know what to say.”

“I know,” Harold replies with the phone receiver pressed tightly to his ear and the whistle still grasped in his other hand. “Are you... are you all right?” Harold asks in a whisper.

Ben clenches his teeth. “I'm fine.”

“I can always tell when you lie to me,” Harold says immediately.

Ben laughs lightly. “I miss that.”

“I miss you, Ben.”

Ben laughs again and feels like crying. “Understatement.”

“Ben, tell me what –”

“I'm all right, Harold, I will be.”

“We're in Iowa now,” Harold says suddenly.

“Iowa?”

“On a farm.”

Ben huffs in disbelief. “A what?”

Harold glances around the house and grins. “I know.”

“I have a job with Dharma now.”

Harold frowns. “A job?”

“Workman, it gives you access.”

“Access to what?”

Ben smiles. “I don't even know where to begin.”

“What to say.” Harold feels a tear in his eye.

“It's just...”

“It's been...”

They both say, “Years.”

Suddenly, Ben hears the sound of the van outside on the road. “Shit.”

Harold sits up straight in his chair. “What, what is it?”

“I have to go.”

“No!” Harold leans forward over the table as if he could reach Ben through the phone. “Please, not yet.”

“I'm sorry.” Ben glances at the door then back to the equipment. “I'm sorry, Harold.”

“But we barely had a chance to –”

“Ben?” David calls from out in the other room.

“I miss you so much. I'm sorry,” Ben says then cuts off the line with the sound of Harold's 'wait' just discernible on the other end.

Ben pulls the headset off, slides it to the other side of the table, flicks off the connection switch for the external communications then quickly brings up the chess game on the computer. He makes two quick, rash moves against the computer and then David walks into the room.

“Hey.” David shrugs and waves a hand at the other room. “I was calling you.”

Ben looks up as if he just heard David. “What? Oh, sorry, I was playing the chess game.” He smiles, innocent and honest.

Harold stares across the room toward the dim light outside in the backyard. He holds the receiver up to his ear listening only to the silence. Finally he puts the receiver down back in the cradle and drops the whistle onto the table. 

Harold rubs a hand over his hair and sighs. “Damn it.”

Ben lies in bed that night – listens to the wind through the jungle and hears Harold's voice in his head. He smiles into the darkness for maybe the first time in years.

Harold lies in bed that night – listens to the silence of the plains and hears Ben's voice in his head. He smiles into the darkness in a way he has not in years.

Though Harold tries to replicate the process, though Ben keeps a watchful eye for messages or communications anomalies, they never make the connection again.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits in the center of the cafeteria with his chemistry book and his physics book in front of him. He writes on a notepad, looking up at the books and occasionally turning a page. He is not studying or doing homework.

Throughout the rest of the cafeteria, Dharma researchers sit in small groups, laughing and talking. One man talks about how quickly the polar bears have learned the fish retrieval test. Another woman talks about the changes in the birds, how large they have grown. Two men speak in hushed tones about their observations of the Swan, how can they keep letting this go on? A woman talks about genetic experiments on rabbits and the reallocation of her resources, yet again.

Ben writes down every scrap he hears, every sentence, every word, every small bit of information he – and his people – can use to bring Dharma down.

––––––––––––––––

Harold walks down the hall at school after his information technology class. He asked his teacher, who has called Harold his best student on numerous occasions, to borrow a few circuit boards for a home project. Harold needs to get a small fan as well to work on the overheating problem which melted his last circuit board.

In his hand, Harold carries a magazine. Strictly speaking he should not be carrying it out in the open since it is something of an underground publication but Harold knows that no one in this tiny Iowa town will know what it is. He has read the whole issue already, read about packet switching and a nationwide government computer network.

Harold does not think about his homework or graduation, he thinks about how he needs to know more about the government’s computer network ARPNET.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits across from Charles Widmore on the edges of the hostiles’ camp – Ben thinks maybe they should pick a name for themselves. Behind Charles, Ben sees two women and a man standing over a fire pit; beyond that a man holds a ladder for a woman as she patches the top of one hut. It looks surreal but it also feels oddly like home.

“Been a long time,” Charles says.

Ben’s eyes shift back to Charles. “Well, I’ve been patient.”

“You have.”

“Very patient.”

Charles tilts his head. “We all have our roles to play, Ben, and I told you before, living with them does not make you one of them.”

Ben folds his hands together and tilts his head back at Charles. “But does that mean I’m really one of you?”

“You’re here right now, aren’t you?” Ben huffs and looks away. “Just what more do you want?”

Ben turns his head back sharply to look at Charles again. “Do you even want me, or are you just using me for access to Dharma?”

Charles frowns. “Why would you say that?”

Ben narrows his eyes at the evasive answer. “It's hard for me to trust.”

“Of course we want you, Ben.” Ben only raises his eyebrows. Charles leans forward and motions around them. “The island chooses who the island chooses, Ben. You are one of us.” 

Ben frowns. “What?”

“It was the island that really healed you all those years ago, Ben, not us.”

“The island?”

Charles gives him a look. “Haven’t you noticed yet? You know how special the island is, this place.”

Ben touches the side of his head absently, no glasses on his face. He focuses on Charles again and nods. “Yes.” He breathes in once and drops his hand. “But… it’s just been so long. Dharma is not just going to leave. What are you waiting for?”

Charles sits up straight. “It’s not time yet, Ben.”

“Can’t you make it time? Aren’t you the leader? Eloise is gone so it’s just you.”

“We all answer to someone, Ben.”

Ben frowns. “What?”

Charles threads his fingers, presses his lips together and looks at Ben the way his mother used to so long ago, that serious ‘I don’t know about this’ or ‘are you ready’ expression.

“What?” Ben repeats with more question than confusion this time.

Charles glances at the camp beside him. Ben sees Richard – and now it is starting to become a bit odd how Richard looks exactly the same as when Ben was nine but Charles has a few more frown lines from less years. Charles looks back at Ben.

“Some of us have been here for a long time, Ben, years even.”

“So have I.”

Charles smiles. “I have been here thirty years, Ben, and I am not the one who has been here the longest.”

Ben swallows some of his self–righteousness and says nothing back.

“The point, Ben, is that this island is home but it is also a purpose. All of us who are here.” He points toward the camp as a whole. “We were brought here. We were chosen to be here, to protect this place.”

“By the island.”

“Yes.”

“So…” Ben glances at the camp, sees Richard looking at them. “You answer to… the island?”

Charles huffs. “Not exactly, Ben.” Charles leans forward as if it’s a secret and Ben leans forward with him. “I answer to Jacob.”

“Jacob?”

“Jacob protects this island. He decides. He…” Charles rocks his head from side to side once. “I suppose you could say he speaks for the island. Jacob is the one that brought each of us here, even you Ben.”

“Me?”

“He is the one that wanted you healed when you were shot.” Ben raises his eyebrows but does not ask Charles about ‘when you were shot.’ “Jacob is the one, and the island, that made you one of us as you are supposed to be.”

Ben stares back at Charles, imagines a man named Jacob in a tower overlooking the sea reeling them all closer and closer on invisible threads and Ben believes – more than before, more than an idea – he believes in destiny.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits in the front seat of a cop car driving back to their house. The cop, Officer Bradford, drives without speaking and Harold does not try to start conversation. In the back seat Harold's mother stares out one of the side windows. The headlights of the car illuminate the road ahead of them, everything else around them dark. Harold keeps glancing up at the stars and thinking about the shift of the earth.

When the car stops, Officer Bradford steps out of the car and walks around the other side to let Harold’s mother out. Harold climbs out of the car, brushes his mother's shoulder as she walks by him then turns to the officer as he stops beside Harold.

“She wandered half a mile away from home tonight. What happens when the temperature starts to get below zero?” Harold looks away at his mother walking up to the house. “If you're stretched past the point where you can give her what she needs maybe it's time to find a place that can.”

Harold looks back at the officer but can think of nothing to say. Officer Bradford nods once then walks back around his car to the driver’s side. Harold walks back up the house and stands next to his mother on the porch.

“I'm sorry, Harold,” she says quietly. “I don't know why this keeps happening. I...”

“It's all right, mom,” Harold says.

“It's not all right. I know we knew this was going to happen but...” She sighs and runs a hand over her hair, gray now mixed in with the blond. “You shouldn't be here taking care of an old woman.”

“You're not old mom.”

She smiles. “Thank you, dear, but that's not the point. You should be going to college soon. The things you can see; no one knows better than me how smart you are.”

“Mom, I want to help you.”

“Harold...”

“They've built a network to connect all the computers in the country, mom. The government has it and it can connect all the universities in the country too.”

She frowns as if she does not believe him. “Harold.”

“I'm serious, mom. I can bring the information to me.”

She smiles. “If anyone can make that happen, you can, Harold.”

Harold nods, deciding not to expound on the intricacies involved. “This network could maybe even connect to the island, mom.” 

She presses her lips together but says nothing. Harold opens his mouth, wants to talk about The Flame, about when he and Ben spoke, about the computers on the island that could make for a permanent connection with the network. He closes his mouth again and wraps his arm around his mother's shoulders, rubbing one hand over her arm.

“Let's go in, mom.”

Harold puts his mother to bed after she insists on making him a sandwich, 'I have to do something to apologize.' While she sleeps, Harold works at the table in the living room which his mother said has become his at this point. He stands over the machine he has been working on for longer than it has been sitting on this table.

“Looks good…” Harold whispers.

He picks up the casing and carefully puts it over the wires and circuit boards and CPU and parts he has borrowed and stolen for months. He fits it into place over the groves in the base and carefully fits the break in the case over the power cord.

“Okay.” Harold says and blows out a breath of air. “Let's see.” He stands up, takes the cord and plugs it into the outlet in the wall.

Harold walks back around, sits in front of the finished computer and clicks the black switch on the side. “Come on,” he whispers.

Then the green cursor starts to blink on the monitor screen and Harold grins.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits with their chess set on the table in front of him and a log book of famous chess matches he got from Meg. It details each move, strategy methods and even occasionally alternative moves for the losing side. What better way for Ben to learn strategy than chess? Ben stares at the book as he moves each piece on either side of his board. The interesting point Ben finds, at least so far, with many of the games is the surprise sacrifices. So often the queen is lost for the sake of the king at the last minute or the knights are forfeited early on to set a trap.

Ben wonders who his knights are, who is he queen which he must sacrifice to win? Or maybe he already has.

“What are you doing?” His father asks.

Ben’s jaw clenches and he keeps looking at the board. “Chess.”

“You can’t play chess alone.”

“I’m not playing. I’m learning.”

His father makes a scoffing noise. “You already know how to play; I taught you.”

Ben swallows once because he can feel it brewing across the room. “I’m learning more.”

His father scoffs again and stands up. Ben tenses but his father walks the other way into the kitchen. Ben looks up and watches him. Oddly enough, his father does not go to the refrigerator for a beer. Instead he clears some of the plates from dinner and puts them into the sink, turning on the water.

“You know, chess is just a game, right?” His father says, looking at Ben over the half wall between the two rooms. “Not going to get you anywhere in life.”

“Some people become chess masters,” Ben says quietly.

His father gives him an incredulous look. “Because that’s a career path.” He points at Ben with a fork. “And not something you’re likely to do.”

Ben looks back down at the chess set and thinks about throwing piece after piece right at his father’s head. “I didn’t think that.”

“Shouldn’t you be learning something better than that? Something practical?”

Ben almost says, ‘you going to teach me?’ Instead he says nothing and moves another piece in the game from the book.

“You going to answer me?” His father snaps suddenly and Ben’s head jerks up.

“I…” He clears his throat. “I still have lessons with Olivia. I –”

“I meant practical, damn it,” his father snaps. “What do you think I do here? What you think you’re doing now? Driving a car around isn’t the end of it. Got to know more! If you want to really do this job we do you’re going to have to learn more than that, going to have to get your hands dirty.” 

“But I’m not going to just be a workman forever,” Ben says with exasperation and knows as soon as he says it; it was the wrong thing to say.

His father stares at him and Ben stares back, the water still running in the sink but neither of them moving. Ben feels the ‘fight or flight’ response tingling in his body and wonders how fast he could make it to the front door. Instead he closes the chess book, stands up and walks calmly toward his room.

His father bangs Ben into the wall with an arm across Ben’s chest as soon as he passes the entrance to the kitchen. Ben hisses in pain as he head cracks on the plaster, the corner of a picture frame slashing across his temple.

“You need to watch that attitude!” His father holds Ben against the wall with his arm, too close for comfort and louder than before. “You are lucky you are where you are! You should be glad you have a job now and are pulling your weight because if you weren’t maybe I’d just kick you out! You are dead weight otherwise! All the crap you’ve given me; always looking at me with those dead eyes, like everything is my fault; your mother, your… like it’s all my fault, but you should be god damn happy you’re here!” 

Ben shuts his eyes and counts in his head to distract himself from the pressure of his father’s arm, from the ache in his head, from the sting of the cut on his temple and the words that he must not internalize, must not believe. He wants to shove his father back so his head cracks on the sink and bleeds.

His father huffs and pulls back, arm releasing Ben so he can breathe properly again. Ben opens his eyes. “What exactly do you have to offer beyond what you’ve got here, huh? Tell me, what?” 

Ben looks away and does not answer. 

His father suddenly shoves Ben down the hall toward his room. “Just go to bed. In case you forgot, you have work tomorrow with me. So stop playing with chess pieces and worry about your real work. Can’t just be a spoiled teenager anymore.”

Later – after his father is asleep, after the cut on his head stops bleeding – Ben sits outside with his back leaning against the wall of the house. He stares at the jungle. There is no wind tonight, only silence and trees and the stars above. Ben knows he has to keep moving forward. He is patient and there is a plan to fix this problem of Dharma, to get himself out of this hole. He watches the jungle and thinks about when it will be his home, when he will have the power to throw men into walls and call them worthless. 

He thinks about Harold, the ever present absence at his side.

Ben rubs a hand over his face and thinks about the future on the horizon.

––––––––––––––––

Harold and his mother sit across from each other at the dinner table. Most of their dinner is finished now, some mashed potatoes still on his mother’s plate. Harold twists his water glass around in his hand watching the space between his mother and the wall. He sees lines of code in the air, practically writing itself.

“Do you think about the island anymore, Harold?” 

Harold blinks hard. “Mom?”

“The island was a beautiful place.” She smiles at Harold. “It was the jungle but it wasn’t hot like you would expect; it was such a perfect temperature all the time.” She laughs once. “And the stars there, they were so…”

“Wrong?” Harold finishes.

She gives him a look but does not ask what he means. Instead she glances away. “Do you think about your father?”

“Or my brother?” Harold says.

She looks back at him again. They stare at each other for a moment then she smiles. “I remember when the two of you were never out of each other’s sight. Four years old running around like the other’s shadow. You two made a ship once in the back yard out of boxes and some of my sheets. I didn’t have the heart to yell at you for cutting them up. One of you had a captain’s hat made out of a magazine and the other had two toilet paper rolls taped together to make a telescope.” She laughs again. “You both kept talking about –”

“Pirate treasure,” Harold finishes.

She nods. “And then when you finished making the tree house even after you two got hurt.” Harold clenches his hands into fists and feels like he cannot breathe. “You spent weeks pounding nails and carrying wood and your father helped you out with the ladder. And then the thing only lasted a year before that storm tore half of it down.” She waves a hand. “Then we left for the island a few weeks later.” She sighs and taps her fork on her plate. “I used to wonder if you two would get the idea into your heads to make a tree house on the island.”

“I guess we weren’t there long enough,” Harold says quietly.

She looks at him and nods. “I guess not.” She looks away. “I know you probably still blame me about your brother.” She looks back at Harold and he makes his hands relax. “But I miss him just as much. I miss your brother too, Ben.”

Harold feels his lip tremble but he bites down on it and cannot correct her.

Later – after his mother is asleep, after he wipes tears from his cheeks in the dark – Harold sits outside with his back leaning against the wall of the house. The moon is out and the fields are quiet. He watches wind blow the short stalks of corn, no ears of corn even grown yet. Harold knows he has to keep moving forward. He knows what he has been doing – the phreaking, his investigations into ARPNET – will not go unnoticed forever. But he is not going to stop. He thinks about when lines of code and computers growing faster and smarter every day will take him away. 

He thinks about Ben, the ever present absence at his side. 

Harold rubs a hand over his face and thinks about the future on the horizon.

––––––––––––––––

“Hey, Mr. Goodspeed.”

Mr. Goodspeed turns around as Ben runs up to him. He smiles and puts a hand on Ben’s shoulder. "You’re almost seventeen now, Ben, I think you can call me Horace.”

Ben frowns. “Really?” He nods. Ben clears his throat. “Well, Horace, I wanted to talk to you about Dharma.”

Horace raises his eyebrows and keeps walking, Ben alongside. “What about it?”

“Well,” Ben pulls out one of his false smiles which are more frequent in number than he used to realize. “I was thinking I might be better in a different role.”

Horace frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I am interested in a better job, in research for example.”

Horace laughs. “You’re not even seventeen, Ben; I think there’s time for job goals a bit later, right?”

“I have a job right now.”

“Well, yes…”

“So shouldn’t I have goals related to bettering my job position right now?”

“I…” Horace huffs once and smiles that same patronizing smile. “Not exactly what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?”

“I…” Horace finally stops walking and looks at Ben. “Have you talked to your father about this?”

“I…” Ben shuts his mouth, for a moment derailed. Then he smiles again. “Like you said, I’m almost seventeen. Shouldn’t it be my decision what I want to do with my life?”

“Your life doesn’t have to be Dharma, Ben.”

Ben frowns in the most obsequious way. “Why wouldn’t I want it to be? You’re doing important research here. I want to be a part of it!”

Horace nods. “I understand, Ben, but you would need training before you could become part of Dharma.”

“And you could train me.”

“That’s not what I meant. Many of the researchers here have been to years and years of school; they have masters and doctorates. They know what they are doing.”

Ben frowns. “But…”

“Talk to your father, Ben. Maybe you could go to college and after that Dharma could be the place for you. Plus there are plenty of other good things you can do with your life. Ask your father, he should be able to give you some advice.”

“I don’t think my father cares at all what happens you me,” Ben snaps without being able to stop himself. Horace raises his eyebrows in surprise and Ben back peddles quickly. “Sorry, I just mean he’s… well, he’s obviously busy.”

Horace nods. “I’m sure he’ll come around, Ben.” He pats Ben’s shoulder and starts walking again toward security. “You just keep at it.”

Ben stares at Horace’s back as he walks away. He stretches out his fingers, breathes out slowly and stays calm, stays patient.

––––––––––––––––

Harold types on the computer he built – it has been working well so far, a few sparks here and there. 

“Do you want something to drink, coffee maybe?”

“I don’t drink coffee, mom,” Harold says over his shoulder then turns back to his computer. “You already asked me once.”

He types another line of code, tries another angle, but the gap he thought he found in the ARPNET system does not crumble the way he had hoped. Harold clicks his tongue and shakes head. “All right, let’s try this.”

“I’m heading out, Harold,” his mother says.

Harold turns around in his chair. “Where?”

She frowns at him. “To the north field.”

“Is Brian going with you?”

His mother gives him a look and presses her lips together. She looks away for a moment then turns back to him. “Brian and Anthony are meeting me out there, okay?”

Harold opens his mouth but just closes it again and nods at her.

She nods back, picks up her work gloves and heads out the side door. Harold watches until the door closes softly behind her. Harold looks back at the screen and frowns. He has been sitting at the computer since this morning and while he can tell he is making progress there is still a way to go.

“Okay.” 

Harold stands up and walks to the front door. He grips the door handle then glances at his keys sitting on the sideboard against the wall. He purses his lips then picks up the keys. Harold turns around and walks to the side door his mother went through a minute ago to the garage instead.

Harold drives into town and stops at the post office. He walks to the back where the P.O. boxes line the walls and stops in front of number three–one–four. He uses the small key on his key ring and opens the box. Inside are two magazines which Harold is on the mailing list for – one which happens to have a story about ARPNET on the front cover – and one envelope, all addressed to Harold Wren. Harold starts to close the box when he notices the insignia on the envelope.

“MIT?” Harold says out loud in surprised disbelief.

It has only been a month since he applied.

Harold stuffs the magazines back into the box, his keys into his pocket and rips off one short side of the envelope. He pulls out the piece of paper, unfolds it as his hands shake then his eyes lock in on the word ‘accepted.’

“Oh my god,” Harold breathes out. “Oh my…” He looks up because he wants someone to tell, someone to shout to. He looks down again. “Accepted.” He laughs and looks up. “Accepted!”

An older man sifting through mail in his hands looks over at Harold for a moment but looks away again just as quickly.

Harold smiles and reads through the rest of the letter which covers admission date, scholarships, and everything Harold could have hoped for. He carefully folds the letter back up and slides it into the envelope. He pulls the two magazines out of the P.O. box again then closes it up.

As he drives home, still high on the idea of Massachusetts and a university full of likeminded students, he suddenly thinks about his mother. Harold’s face falls, he remembers his comment the year before about bringing the information to him and how he would not leave her. Harold stares out at the road as he drives. He knows he cannot really stay here forever; he knows he cannot take care of his mother the way she will need, the way she likely needs sooner. Harold shakes his head and wishes this was not his decision alone.

––––––––––––––––

Ben walks briskly down one of the lower level halls in the Hydra. He hears someone speaking around the corner and keeps his face a perfect mask of calm. He rounds the corner, box held in his hands, and walks past the pair of researchers. Neither of them even spares him a glance. Ben smiles just a little as he walks on.

Then the alarm starts to blare.

The lights dim and the loudspeaker crackles to life: “Hostile incursion, please report to your designated safe zones. Repeat, hostile incursion.”

Ben rounds another corner, reaches the outer door and shoves it open. Three people hurry in, guns in hand. 

“The research rooms are on this floor, around this corner and then left. You’ll see all the doors.” Ben says quickly as he puts down the box. He opens it and pulls out the access key hidden underneath the pile of Dharma uniforms. “Here.” He presses the key into one woman, Jean’s, hand. “Room twenty–three.”

She grins and touches his cheek. “Thank you.”

“Now get going,” the man beside her says to Ben, “can’t let them catch you with us.”

Ben shakes his head. “No, I’ll guard the door as long as I can.”

“Ben,” the third hostile hisses – Ben believes his name is Pryce. “You can’t be caught. If –”

“We don’t have time for this!” Jean says. “Let’s go!” She looks at Ben. “Do what you want but don’t let them catch you.”

Ben only nods as they run away down the hall. Ben keeps his back to the wall, eye on the other hallway to his right. The loudspeaker keeps blaring the same message and then the lights change to emergency red, just enough to see by. Ben breathes out quickly and opens his eyes wider, counts minutes. 

Suddenly he hears a gun shot in the direction his people went. Two members of security come running toward him from his right. One runs by him without a glance but the other stops in front of Ben.

“What are you doing here?”

“I…”

“You’re supposed to be in your designated area! There are hostiles inside!”

“I… I don’t usually work here,” Ben says in his most convincing fearful tone. “I don’t have a designated area!”

“Well, go back this way,” the man points down the hall from where he came. “And get into one of the research lab areas. Just knock on the door and say –”

The sound of running feet suddenly makes the man turn around. Before he can move, Ben hears a gunshot and the man falls back into Ben. Ben catches him as he falls then Ben looks up. He sees Jean with a gun in her hand. 

She looks back behind her and shouts, “Let’s move!”

Pryce and the third man come around the corner holding up a woman between them – her hair is matted and dirty and she has perspiration dripping down her neck.

“They were experimenting on her,” Jean says angrily as she walks toward Ben. “What in the hell do these Dharma bastards think they are doing? They are –”

Then Ben sees the second security guard come down the hall behind the trio. Jean does not hear the guard’s footsteps over her own talking. 

Ben grabs the handgun out of the belt of the man slumped against him. He lets the man drop to the floor, cocks the gun, shouts “get down!” and shoots. The four people in-between drop to the floor and Ben does not miss. The security guard spins from the force of the gunshot and drops his rifle. Ben marches forward as the others stand up, the men helping up the injured woman. Ben stands over the security guard – he is new, about two months, Ben does not know his name – and he is not dead yet. Ben stares at him as the man stares back, groaning.

“Damn traitor,” he hisses at Ben.

Ben shoots him again and he stops groaning.

The alarm keeps blaring overhead, the announcement underneath it playing in a loop and Ben stares at the man – blood pooling around his shoulders and sticking in his hair. Ben blinks and vaguely feels the gun fall out of his hand, hears it clatter to the floor in the distance.

“Ben?”

He cannot believe the man is still bleeding with how much is already on the floor.

“Ben?”

Ben blinks again and turns his head to Jean as she grips his arm. “Jean?”

“You have to go, now.”

Ben clenches his jaw and nods. “Yeah.”

“Listen to me, go. Go where the other was telling you, okay? We have Cassie; we have to leave but you can’t be caught.”

“Yeah.”

“Come on.” 

Jean shoves him down the hall head of her. At the corner, the men are helping Cassie limp out the door. No Dharma personnel are in sight.

Jean grips the door handle and looks at Ben. “Remember, Ben, be patient.”

“I will.”

“You are really one of us.”

“I know.”

“So be patient.”

Ben nods. “I will, as long as I need to be.”

She looks past him then nods at him again and shoves his shoulder. “Now, go, get out of here, Ben.”

Ben turns and starts to run down the hall.

“Ben!” Jean shouts.

Ben turns back and looks at her from the next bend in the hallway.

“Thank you!” She says with a smile then disappears through the door.

Pride surges through Ben as he runs down the hall. Inside he is glowing, grinning, cheering as he finds another pair of security guards, tells them about the two shot men he saw, pretends to be frightened. Ben feels like part of something more than he ever has in his life. 

Today was the first time he ever shot someone and he did not hesitate. Surely that means that these are his people, that this is right, that this island is where he belongs, that he has a purpose – a destiny.

Ben thinks about Harold, how perfect it could all be if Harold was here too. 

“We did everything together…” 

If these are Ben’s people then they could be Harold’s too. The two of them could be happy on this island, could protect it and finally be together.

Ben needs to bring Harold back to the island.

––––––––––––––––

Harold types quickly, code sliding down his screen as he goes. He has been working all day long and he knows he is close. Suddenly his computer catches on fire. 

Harold freezes for an instant then jumps up. “No, no…”

He runs to the corner and grabs the fire extinguisher. He sprays some of the chemicals on the fire putting it out quickly. He sits down again, tries to type but the computer is black. He huffs then stands up again.

“I need more power.”

He walks across the room and picks up the phone from the sideboard near the wall. He unplugs it then walks back over to his table. He connects the phone to the connection in this wall then picks up the receiver. He blows his whistle into the receiver, hears the connection noise then he puts the receiver into the cradle attached to his computer. The computer makes a crackling noise then the screen blinks to life again.

Harold sits back down, typing just a few more lines. Then the screen changes and Harold sees: ARPNET across the screen. Harold grins. He is inside; he has hacked ARPNET. Harold runs his hands through his hair, feels more pride than he has ever felt before, wants to tell someone. He wants to tell his brother.

“Ben,” Harold whispers.

ARPNET could be the answer Harold needs to get his brother off the island, to get him back.

“Okay then,” Harold says as he starts typing, “Let’s see what you can do.”

Harold explores the architecture of the program, finds the locations of all the connected computer systems; there is a connection in Norway now. Harold knows the computer on the island will not be connected but there could be a way to use the system to connect to the radio tower on the island.

The next day Harold learns the FBI is looking for him.

Harold stops to check his P.O. Box after school. He only has a hacker magazine which he quickly puts away in his backpack. As he is leaving, the word ‘phreaker’ catches his ear. Harold turns and looks back. He sees one of the post office staff standing with a phone receiver to her ear.

“I understand you’re the F.B.I. but what am I supposed to know about this ‘phreaker’ thing?”

She leans back in her chair, the phone receiver pressed against her shoulder to keep it at her ear as she bundles up stacks of letters with rubber bands.

“I understand tampering with the phone network is a crime. The phones system is very important, of course.”

She nods passively then suddenly sits up straight and grabs the receiver with one hand. “Don’t you ma’am me with that tone! I am trying to assist you as best I can.”

She looks angry for a moment more then her face softens. “All right, of course.” Then she frowns. “The pay phone here? We have one in front of the building. Do you mean…” She nods again. “Yes, of course, I will do what I can.”

Harold turns back around with a frown and heads out the front door. He pauses on the front steps and glances at the phone booth. He huffs then walks back to his car. He slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door behind him.

Harold stares out through the windshield and blows out a breath. “This is not good.”

When Harold gets home, he logs in to ARPNET again – his hack yet to be detected – and connects to the government social security database. He needs to make a clean background for Harold Wren.

––––––––––––––––

Something strange happens at the radio tower. A signal starts to interfere with the looping number message Dharma sends out to its backers – absolutely ridiculous if one were to ask Ben. However, Ben volunteers to hike to the tower and fix it, to figure out the problem.

The message Ben hears at the radio tower is from Harold.

––––––––––––––––

Harold has moved his mother into a home which can care for her, her smile which does not know who he is. Harold is alone now with a path to college ahead of him, though he may have to live with a new name since he is ‘guilty’ of treason. He does not want to do it alone though. He wants – he needs – Ben with him.

The day Harold packs to leave for college the phone rings. 

“Harold?”

“Ben?” Harold says in disbelief.

Ben laughs over the line. “Yes! Harold, I got your message. I’m on the mainland. I’m off the island.”

––––––––––––––––

Harold sees Ben as soon as he steps out of the taxi from the train station. Ben stands under a street lamp on the sidewalk just off the wharf, with sailboats and the Astoria–Megler Bridge behind him. Harold barely remembers to pay the taxi driver as he rushes away from the car. He tries to walk, he really does, until Ben turns his head and they make eye contact. 

Ben starts to run toward Harold as the taxi pulls away. He could not have stopped himself if he tried. Harold is running toward Ben too, dropping his bag in his hurry.

“Ben!” Harold shouts just as Ben shouts, “Harold!”

Then they collide. They spin in place, completely off balance, arms around each other, crying and laughing and crying more – unable to say real words – until they finally fall to the ground half stumbling, half sitting down and completely not even noticing the cement of the sidewalk or the wood of the pier. Ben squeezes Harold against him as Harold presses his face into Ben’s shoulder, both still breathing hard and laughing insanely with tears streaming down their faces. 

Harold finally props himself up on his hands over Ben. “I can’t believe it’s you!” 

“It’s me,” Ben says looking up at him, grinning more than he has in years. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Harold says. 

Then Harold pulls Ben up into a hug again so they are entwined half on top of each other and half sitting on the ground. They hug harder and breathe heavily in each other’s arms. (Ben feels like jungle heat and Harold smells like dusty plains.) They finally pull apart and stare at each other, hands still gripping shoulders and arms.

Harold touches Ben's face. “You're not wearing your glasses.”

“Your hair is long,” Ben says running his hand over Harold's hair.

“Your hair is short!”

“It's not that short.”

“It's shorter than mine.”

Ben laughs again and soon Harold is laughing too.

“I missed you so much,” Harold suddenly gasps out.

Ben pulls Harold close to him again and fists his fingers in the back of Harold's jacket. “I've missed you too.”

Neither of them can come up with a word better that 'missed' though it is nowhere near enough to cover their feelings.

The twins find an all-night diner not too far from the wharf. There are two patrons at the counter and one woman alone in a corner booth. Apart from that, the diner is their own. They sit across from each other occasionally kicking each other softly in the shin just to remind the other they are there.

“I don't know where to start,” Harold admits as they open and close the menus in front of them. “We've only spoken once in nine years.”

“And it was just for a minute,” Ben says.

Harold nods. “You look good; I mean you look all right.”

Ben nods back. “I am. Things have changed.”

“Changed?”

“Yeah, it’s...” Ben drums his fingers on the table and glances out the window. “It's hard to explain.”

“Hello there, boys.”

Harold and Ben turn at the same time to look at the waitress now standing beside their table. Her eyebrows rise in the obvious, 'wow, twins' way but she says nothing. “You know what you'd like?”

“A coffee?” Ben says at the same time Harold says, “Some tea?”

They turn and look at each other in surprise.

The waitress – her name tag says Pam – looks back and forth between the two of them. “Milk and sugar?” She says to Ben.

“Yes.”

“What kind of tea?” She says to Harold.

“Green, please.”

“Any food for you boys?”

They look at each other then back to Pam. “No.”

She glances between them again. “All right, drinks coming up.”

The twins look back at each other as she walks away.

“You drink coffee?” Harold asks.

“You drink tea?” Harold shrugs. Ben smiles and laughs. “Different hair and different drinks?”

“We've never been one hundred percent the same.”

“I know.” Ben taps his toe against Harold's leg. “It's just...”

“I know,” Harold says.

“You're in Iowa?” Ben says with the same tone of confused interest that Harold has as he says, “You work for Dharma?”

They both laugh again and Harold shrugs. “Yeah, landlocked, we have a farm, I help fix the tractor. It's very flat.”

“A tractor?”

“To plow and harvest the corn, you know?”

Ben raises both eyebrows. “That seems rather surreal.”

“It felt that way for a while but then you're the one on a magical island.”

Ben tilts his head. “I don't know if magical is the correct word.”

“What is the correct word?”

Ben taps the table. “I don't know, important?”

“I guess that's why Dharma is there.”

“Dharma shouldn't even be there!” Ben snaps. Harold starts in surprise. Ben holds up his hands. “Sorry, Uh... it's...”

“I thought you were working for Dharma now?”

“No, not exactly.”

Harold frowns. “Well, what then?”

“All right boys.” Pam appears beside their table with a tray in her hand. “Coffee for you, dear, and tea for you. Sugar’s there.” She points to the dish at the end of their table. “And here is some cream for the coffee.” She slides her tray under her arm after putting everything down. “Need anything else?”

“No,” they say together.

“Right, enjoy.”

Ben pours half of the cream into his coffee and adds once packet of sugar. Harold leaves his tea as is, picking up the mug and blowing air over the top.

“Harold, I was hurt a few years ago. I don't remember how.”

“I know, mom said I was screaming and I don't remember either.”

“Yeah.” Ben puts his spoon in his mug and stirs once. “Well, the hostiles healed me.”

“The hostiles did?”

“The hostiles aren't... they aren't hostiles. They island is theirs, well, they protect it and the island helps them. They are the ones that should be there and Dharma shouldn't and it has to change.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean things can’t go on forever as they are on the island, this ‘detente,’ all the experiments Dharma is trying to do which produces nothing and manipulates the island as it shouldn’t be.”

Harold frowns. “I… I don’t understand Ben. Are you telling me you’re with the hostiles now?”

“Not exactly.”

“What about… about…. Dad?”

Ben’s jaw clenches and he looks down at his coffee. “He’s the same.”

Harold does not need to ask what Ben means. Harold reaches across the table and puts his one hand over Ben’s. Ben looks up at him and remembers what being a brother is like. Ben looks down at their hands, folds his hand around Harold’s and Harold squeezes.

“I’ve felt it too sometimes,” Harold whispers. “Not often but sometimes.”

Ben huffs out a breath rubbing his thumb over Harold’s knuckles. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for him,” Harold hisses, squeezing Ben’s hand again.

Ben looks up at Harold. “I’m not apologizing for him. I’m just sorry we both have to…” He sighs and shakes his head. “That we both have to go through it.”

Ben pulls his hand away from Harold and picks up his coffee mug with both hands taking a sip. Harold mirrors him and takes a sip of his tea.

“It won’t be forever. I am patient and the hostiles, the… the others, they are going to change things and am going to be on the right side of whatever happens.”

Harold puts his mug down. “What are they going to do?”

Ben takes another sip of his coffee then puts it down on the table. “I don’t know yet but…” He tilts his head. “I’m patient.”

“I got in to MIT,” Harold says suddenly. Ben blinks in surprise. “I applied to MIT and I got in. I’m going to college.”

“College?”

“Yeah.”

“Mom can pay for that?”

“She…” Harold glances away and slides his fingers over the warm porcelain of his tea mug. “It’s complicated.”

“Paying for college?”

“Mom.”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “Our mother is complicated?”

“She…” Harold sighs and pushes his tea mug away. “She has dementia.”

Ben blinks three times. “Excuse me?” Harold only pulls his tea mug back toward him and takes a drink. Ben leans forward over the table. “How can she have dementia? She’s not that old!”

“It’s not unheard of.”

“It is to me!”

“I’m not a doctor, Ben, what do you want me to say?” Harold says then huffs out a heavy breath.

“Harold…”

“I had to put her in a home.” Ben’s eyes widen. “I… I couldn’t take care of her.”

“Harold…” Ben says again but his tone softer.

“She called me Ben not long ago.” Harold takes a big gulp of his tea. “She only ever mixed us up once before, once when we were trying to... And now who knows what she will call me when I go back.”

Ben twists his mug around on the table. “Dad slammed me into a wall not long ago and all but blamed me for how our lives are on the island.”

Harold and Ben stare at each other, toes bumping together under the table. They both pick up their mugs and sip their hot drinks. 

Ben and Harold leave the diner only having finished about half of their drinks. They walk side by side along the boat docks. It is after midnight and most of the area is deserted. For a while neither of them speaks, just occasionally touching the other to make sure the moment is real. 

“You never came back,” Ben says quietly and they both stop walking. “You got on the submarine and never came back.”

Harold breathes out a shaky breath and nods. “I know. I can’t explain it. I begged mom.”

“You never came back,” Ben repeats. “You… you left me.”

Harold’s expression turns pained. “I tried to… I tried to find a way back. I tried so hard to find you.”

Ben looks away for a moment then nods, staring out at the ocean. “I know. I know you did. I tried to follow you.”

“Ben, I…”

Ben suddenly reaches out and grabs Harold close to him. “I’m not angry,” He whispers. “I’m not.” He squeezes Harold against him and Harold clings on to him. “Don’t leave me,” Harold whispers back. “Not again.”

Ben pulls back with his hands on Harold’s shoulders. “Come with me.”

Harold blinks. “What?”

“Come back to the island with me.”

Harold takes one step backward, Ben’s finger tips just barely touching him. “Back to the island?”

“Yes,” Ben insists, stepping closer to Harold again and squeezing his shoulders. “We can be together.”

Harold pulls away. “What are you talking about, Ben? Why would I want to go back to the island?”

“You don’t understand, Harold. You remember how strange it was, the stars –”

“I remember the stars.”

“But it’s not just the stars.”

Harold nods. “Oh, I’ve gathered that. It can barely be found.”

“That’s just it, Harold. The island is special.” Ben waves a hand between them. “Just like us! We used to talk about why were on the island, about fate. We are supposed to be there.”

Harold shakes his head. “No, no, Ben. I am not going back to that island! I have a future here.”

Ben shakes his head in a mirror to Harold. “A future? Our future should be together.”

“Of course it should, Ben. I’ve wanted that for nine years!”

“Then come back with me!” Ben breathes in sharply. “There isn’t anything more important than us together, more important than any future, don’t you want that?”

“Of course I do! I want you with me all the time.” Harold waves a hand through the air. “I always want us to be together and we can be. You can leave the island!”

Ben pulls back as if he had not even considered the idea. “No, I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Harold flings up his hands. “You’re here right now!”

“You know very well what I meant.”

“No, Ben, I don’t. You can leave the island. You’re already here! Why would you want to stay? We were never happy there!”

“It’s not about happiness.”

Harold huffs. “Then what is it?”

“Destiny!” 

“What?”

“That place, that island is my destiny, Harold.” He points at toward the sea. “It can be yours too.”

“I’m going to MIT, Ben. I am going to learn more about programming, about computers and maybe you can call that destiny too because I know I…” Harold huffs. “The government has a system which can link computers on the other side of the world now and I hacked it, me! I can change the world, Ben, and I can’t be on that island to do that. I don’t want to be!”

Ben presses his lips together and says nothing for a minute. He shakes his hand and waves his arms in a helpless way. “But I want you with me.”

“I want to be with you.”

“Then come to the island.”

“Then come with me!”

Ben shakes his head. “I can’t, not after I’ve come this far; not after I’ve waited so long and given so much. They… they are my people, Harold. I can feel it and I can’t explain it to you, but they are!”

Harold puts his hands in his hair and shakes his head again. “I don’t understand; this can’t be what…” He drops his hands. “You are supposed to be with me. You were supposed to be with me back then.”

“But I didn’t come with you.” Ben’s voice turns hard. “Dad pulled me back and mom ran away. They tore us apart and we can’t turn back time.”

“No…”

“I…” Ben sniffs once, head tilted toward the water and Harold sees tears in the corner of his eyes. “I want you with me Harold but I cannot abandon the island. I have a destiny that I have to see through.”

“Please, don’t do this, Ben. Come with me.”

Ben looks at Harold again. “I asked you to come with me.”

Harold fists his hands. “But neither of us will.”

They stare at each other – frozen and frightened and at an impasse. Then Harold heaves himself forward into Ben’s arms. They cling onto each other, not speaking, just holding on. After a long time Ben pulls back.

“I have to go back to the submarine.”

“Please don’t.”

Ben looks at Harold and Harold stares back.

“I’m sorry.”

Then Ben turns out of Harold’s arms and walks away down the pier. Harold says nothing and Ben does not turn back. It is exactly like they are eight years old all over again screaming in the night as they are torn apart.


	5. To learn is to live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You can’t wait for destiny, Ben. You have to make your own, create your own.”_
> 
> _“I am, Harold, right here, and you can too.”_
> 
> Ben learning the ways of his people on the Island. Harold growing and learning at MIT.

Harold places the last box of his things from the airport taxi on to the desk beside his bed. Behind him on the other bed is a pair of suitcases and a garment bag. Harold wonders as an aside if that means he needs to go buy a good suit. Harold looks back at his bags and bites the edge if his lip. He is here at MIT.

"Harold Wren, I presume?" Harold turns his head sharply to see a tall man with sandy hair wearing white shirt sleeves and gray slacks standing in the doorway. The man smiles and points at Harold. "Computer science."

Harold frowns. "How did you know that?"

The blond pulls one hand up from behind his back and touches a finger to his temple. "Clairvoyant." Harold just stares at him for a minute then the man pulls his other arm from behind his back and holds up a piece of paper. "Or I can read." He grins again. "Declaring a major already?"

"They asked for intended major." Harold picks up his matching room assignment form off the bed, glances at it then back to the person in his door. "Ingram?"

"Your pronunciation skills are admirable but as your roommate I believe Nathan will suffice."

Harold feels himself smiling. "Pleasure to meet you."

“Likewise.” Nathan drops the arm holding the paper and steps into the room. “Many a box you have brought.”

Harold smiles. “I like to be prepared.”

“Hmm.” Nathan raises his eyebrows then reaches over and picks up the garment bag off his bed and walks toward his closet near the door. “Well, in terms of preparedness, the bathrooms are to the left and the lounge downstairs allows smoking. Also the kitchen could use some work.”

Harold frowns. “How long have you been here?”

Nathan hangs his garment bag in the closet. “About an hour.” Nathan grins again. “And our neighbor on the left is an engineer.”

“Good?”

“She looks it.”

Harold’s ‘hmms,’ then turns back to his boxes and opens the one containing the computer he built. He carefully pulls it out, shedding bubble wrap as he goes. He puts it on his desk then searches for an outlet. 

“Shit,” Nathan says behind him with a tone of surprise. Harold glances over his shoulder at Nathan who is standing still with a book in his hand, staring at the computer. “You made that.” It is not a question.

“Yes.”

“I guess Bonnie is not the only engineer.” 

Harold shrugs. “I have many talents.

“I bet you do,” Nathan says and the way he looks at Harold now is wholly different than minutes before.

Later, when Nathan is gone and Harold is alone, Harold sets up one more piece of equipment attached to his computer. He does not know how well it will work, how far it can reach – across the country and the ocean, to the island and his other half. Harold connects the radio transmitter to the phone and to his computer then flips it on. He sets the broadcast – the personal call – to repeat and never turns it off.

“I’m not abandoning you,” Harold whispers, staring at the transmitter. “And you are not abandoning me.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits beside Charles around a camp fire. Charles’ hair is shorter now and grey intermingled with the brown. Richard walked away a few minutes ago and has not returned. Seated across from them are Jean and another woman named Nancy, bowls in their hands. Closer to the fire, a man Ben met once before but cannot recall the name of stirs a pot suspended over the fire.

“Plans are moving forward, Ben.” Ben watches Charles silently as he speaks. “It is slow going, certainly, but they are moving.”

“To remove Dharma?”

Charles nods. “We are abiding by the truce as are they for the time being.”

“After last year at the Hydra and Cassie, they are –”

Charles shakes his head once sharply and Ben stops talking. “It is all give and take, Ben.” Ben frowns but decides not to press Charles for further explanation. “We bide our time and wait and see. If we do follow the truce, Dharma has fifteen years.”

“Fifteen!” Ben gasps.

The man by the fire looks up and Jean across from them snickers. Ben glances at her and she shakes her head. “Fifteen from when it was first made, kid, don’t worry so much.”

Ben clears his throat and tries not to react negatively to the moniker ‘kid.’ He looks back at Charles again. Charles has a neutral expression on his face. He glances at the fire then back to Ben.

“As I said, Ben, we bide our time.”

“And me?”

“Especially you.” Ben huffs. “We all play our part and we all wait for orders, Ben, must I tell you again?”

Ben clenches his jaw but says nothing. He and Charles stare at each other for a moment. Then Ben glances away at the fire, feels how late the hour is and how he should return to the barracks. 

Ben looks at Charles again after the tense feeling has subsided. “And just what do I do with this time I am biding?”

Charles smiles but it is not in an entirely pleasant way. “You spy.”

Ben chuckles but it is not entirely humorous either. “It seems I am becoming an expert at it.”

“It is likely we are not the only ones planning; The Hydra can tell us that.” Charles says with a tone of reprimand. Ben only nods. “But that cannot be it.” Charles tilts his head and continues. “I want to know what else.”

Ben tilts his head back at Charles then smiles. “And you will.”

At home – in the enemy camp – Ben works, Ben watches, and Ben ensures he is posted to regular supply runs to The Flame. He may have a duty to the hostiles, to his people, the others but he also has hopes of his own. At the Flame, in the communications room he watches the frequencies, keeps track of the reports from The Looking Glass.

“I’m not abandoning you,” Ben whispers, staring at switches and microphones. “And you are not abandoning me.”

––––––––––––––––

Harold writes quickly in his notebook, his other hand turning pages in the textbook. For a moment it leans precariously off the edge of the desk attached to his chair but Harold smacks his hand down on it so it does not tumble to the floor. At the front of the forty-plus student filled classroom, the professor continues to talk about conditional aspects in computer programing. Though the class is Introduction to Computer Programing, and, yes, Harold already knows much of what will be covered in their syllabus, hearing the professor talk beyond what is in the book, seeing like minds around him, Harold is inspired. 

“A computer only can do what you tell it to,” the professor says at the front of the class and Harold looks up from his notes. “When you punch in four plus four in a calculator don’t expect to get sixteen as a response.”

Harold snorts quietly.

The professor’s eyes tick to Harold for a moment then back to the class at large. “I have had plenty of students who imagine their programing will take on some sort of life of its own and they will be the next IBM.” The professor shrugs. “And maybe you will, but the idea has to be yours; the computer will not think it up for you.”

Harold writes on his page, the computer will not think it up for you, and circles it. He imagines an algorithm for creating ideas – solve for creation – and grins again. “I guess we call that the brain.”

Harold flips a page in his book as the professor talks on, mentions the programs they will be introduced to and the various classes which go beyond this introductory course. Harold’s eyes slide down the page in his book, he writes ‘wrong’ next to one sentence and turns the page again. He estimates he will be finished with the course material as it appears to be presented in a month. He flips through more pages and sees a chapter on software types, the importance of hardware.

Harold nods. “Don’t I know it.” 

He does hope his homemade computer does not catch fire at any time in his dorm room. Harold wonders if it would be worth his taking some of the engineering classes to help perfect his own computer model; increase energy intake, lessen overheating. Harold writes a note on one page, ‘hardware.’

“They should have an introduction to computer hardware course,” Harold mutters to himself. His pen stills for a moment and he thinks that, yes, they probably do. He grins. “Next semester.”

Harold glances up at the professor, sees some notes about initial programing language methods on the board and decides to write it down. One can always learn more. Harold smiles and keeps writing.

“You know you’ll rip through the page if you write any harder.”

Harold jerks his head up in surprise, suddenly notices most of his classmates filing out of the seminar room, (how much time has passed?) then his eyes tick to the voice beside him. He frowns. “What?”

The curly haired man belonging to the voice gestures at Harold’s notebook. “Ink is not without its dangers.” Then he gestures at the classroom. “And class is over.”

Harold clicks his teeth. “Yes, it is.”

The man of the curls holds out his hand. “Arthur Claypool, hi.”

Harold stands and shakes Arthur’s hand. “Harold Wren.”

Arthur chuckles. “Bit big for a wren, aren’t you?” He waves a hand up and down indicating Harold. “Less feathers too.”

Harold chuckles once. “And not much a flyer.”

“Suppose you’ve gotten jokes like that a lot.”

Harold purses his lips. “Not as much as you’d think.”

Arthur smiles. “Well, that will be my last one.” He reaches over and suddenly picks up Harold’s notebook, flipping it closed. He holds it out to Harold. “Come on, if you’re going to be so intense might as well work on the real thing, right?”

Harold raises an eyebrow. “Jumping on a computer already?”

Arthur raises both eyebrows back. “You expect me to believe you haven’t already hacked the Pentagon or something?”

Harold clears his throat, wonders at what it is about him that apparently says ‘hacker,’ then takes his notebook from Arthur. “Not the pentagon.”

Arthur laughs like a bark and slaps a hand good naturedly on Harold’s shoulder. “We are going to be friends, I guarantee it.” He points back at Harold as they walk toward the classroom door together. “Especially if I don’t make any bird jokes.”

“You can if you want. I won’t be offended.”

“Oh no no, wouldn’t want to ruffle any feathers.”

Harold cannot help it, he laughs.

––––––––––––––––

Ben wipes down tables in the cafeteria after the lunch rush and all the researchers are dispersed back to their stations across the island. He kicks a discarded tray on the floor toward the back door to take to the kitchen later. The kitchen staff usually does the cleanup in the cafeteria but Ben offered to help today since they have a new pallet drop to inventory and pack away for the next month. Honestly, Ben hates this sort of work – hates feeling subservient – but he also knows the friendlier and more helpful a person is, the more they are trusted. Wiping down the crumbs and mess from other people does make Ben understand his father just a bit more; no wonder Roger has spent so much of his life angry.

“Ben.”

Ben looks up to see his father in the doorway, speak of the devil.

“Yes?”

“Need your help with something.”

“I am doing something at the moment.”

“And you can do it later; the cafeteria has its own saps to clean it.” His father gestures out the door. “We have a sonic fence to repair.”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “Someone run a van into it?”

His father huffs in annoyance. “Don’t be smart.”

Ben sighs and holds back the urge to pick up a left behind plate and hurl it at his father’s head. Instead he forces a smile and nods. “Ten minutes?”

His father sighs back at him. “Make it a quick ten minutes.”

His father turns out of the door and lets its close behind him. Ben stares at the door for a few seconds then turns back to the table. He wonders if it is worth the inevitable backlash to ‘forget’ to go help his father. Ben shakes his head, stands up straight and picks up the few plates left on the table. He is nearly done clean up at this point anyway. He has already wiped down the other tables and swept the floor.

“Absolute pigs,” Ben mutters as he walks over to the dish window.

He puts the plates down and looks around the room to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anymore flatware. He leans over, picks up the tray he kicked earlier and adds it to the pile.

“Hey there, Ben.”

Ben turns in surprise to see Olivia walking toward him. He sees the back door swinging closed and wonders how he did not hear it sooner.

“Olivia, how are you?”

She just smiles and shrugs a little as if to say ‘okay.’ Her hands are full with three text books and a stack of papers on top. Ben knows she only has three students now and is also assisting with some sort of research at The Pearl. Olivia glances out around the empty cafeteria then back to Ben.

“Cleaning up?”

Ben smiles. “Done now.”

“Doesn’t the kitchen staff usually clean up in here?” She asks.

Ben raises his eyebrows in slight surprise. Most of the research staff have little idea about what the various support staff does nor do they care. Ben nods and shrugs one shoulder. “I offered to help. They just got a pallet drop so they are fairly busy.”

“Ah.” She nods again then clears her throat. “Uh, Ben, I wanted to…” She pauses then smiles. “Ben, I wanted to ask you…”

Ben frowns. “What?”

She glances at the room again, shifts the books around in her arms and looks at him again. “You’re smart, Ben.”

Ben blinks. “I…”

“I know we don’t have our independent study time together anymore what with you being over eighteen and working with your father but…” She holds up a hand just a bit from her pile. “And I… I don’t mean to demean this type of work or your father but…” She smiles and suddenly puts her pile down on the table nearest to them. She turns back and grips Ben’s hand. “Is this what you really want, Ben? You can do more than this. I know you can.”

Ben stares at her in shock. “Olivia…”

Her hand tightens around his. “You were always a bright student in class and when we worked one on one… you learn quickly, how much you’ve read by now." She laughs. "I think you must have read every book I’ve brought here.”

“Yes.”

“This.” She waves her free hand around the room. “This is not a future for you. You should…” She huffs. “What about college, Ben?”

Ben laughs once. “Olivia, there is no college on the island.”

Her expression changes somewhat as if that is not at all what she expected him to say. She presses her lips together and releases his hand. “This island may be special but it is not the whole world, Ben.”

It is odd but, even though Ben says nothing out loud, his first reaction is to reply, ‘yes, it is.’

“I know I am not in your situation, I know it is not my decision and your life is up to you, Ben, but I think you can set your sights higher. I think you could do so much more, be a scientist or anything you want. You have a brain that can get you there.”

Ben’s jaw clenches. “A brain is not the only thing you need, Olivia. Reality isn’t as cut and dried as hopes and dreams."

Olivia opens her mouth then closes it again. She obviously forces out another smile. “That’s true but that also does not mean you shouldn’t try if it’s what you want.”

Ben swallows and, despite himself, he nods. “I...” He clears his throat. “Maybe.”

Olivia smiles for real this time then leans over and picks up her pile of books and papers. “I just hope you think about it.”

Ben nods again. “I will.”

“I think you have potential and you shouldn’t waste it.” She appears to ponder for a moment then raises her eyebrows. “Make it reality.”

Ben chuckles politely. “Ah, yes.”

“Ben, is your…” She looks suddenly uncomfortable as if she wishes she had not started the sentence.

“Is my what?”

“What is Harold doing now?”

Ben blinks twice and feels much like he wants to vomit. He smiles at her and takes a step back. “I will see you later, Olivia. I have something I need to get to.”

“Oh…” Olivia nods in a self-conscious way. “Of course.” She waves a hand absently at him as she turns and walks back toward the door she came in.

Ben smiles until the door closes behind her then his face falls into a flat line. She may have ideas about his ‘potential;’ she may have thought she could be helpful, inspiring or whatever high minded idea was passing through her head but did she help him before? Did she stop his father from hurting him? Did she pay any attention to him beyond her books and classroom? Days upon weeks upon months when it was just the two of them working on calculus or Civil War history or the geography of South America; when she could have done something more, when it was so obvious, when she could have helped him when he really needed it.

Ben turns away from the door. “Too little, too late.”

––––––––––––––––

“Hi.”

Harold’s eyes widen in surprise as he turns from his computer screen to the woman who just sat down at the computer terminal beside him.

“Hi.”

“Harold?”

He frowns. “Yes?”

She grins and runs a hand through her dirty blond hair. “Just checking.” She holds out the hand she just ran through her hair to Harold. “I’m Jenna.”

Harold takes her hand and shakes it. “From Computer Theory.”

Jessica smiles. “Right, you noticed me?”

Harold shrugs. “A lot less women in the subject area than men.”

Her smile stays still in that way Harold thinks probably means he said something not quite right. However, then she nods once and pulls her hand back. “Yeah.” She glances away once at the only partially full computer lab then looks at Harold again. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind having a study date with me.”

Harold’s brow furrows. “Study date?”

“Yeah, for Computer Theory class. I could use some help and you are always writing away so quickly in class, you hardly even look at the board. Seems like you already know it all!”

“Oh.” Harold clears his throat awkwardly. “I wouldn’t say…. Not exactly… But.” He clears his throat again. “I’m not sure you would even need my help?”

Jenna’s smile slips slightly. “Pardon?”

“I mean, you’re the one who answers half the professor’s questions in class every week.”

“Well, yes.”

“If anything, sounds like you’d be the one helping me.”

She chuckles. “Do you really need the help though?”

“No, not really.”

She frowns and brushes some hair behind her ears. “Right, okay.” She stares at him a moment longer but Harold cannot think what to say. Then suddenly she stands up. “Thanks anyway.” She turns, pushes the chair back in and walks away.

Harold rubs a hand across the edge of the table as he looks at the empty space she left. Then he turns back to his computer screen again.

“Do not ever do that again,” Arthur says as he abruptly appears on Harold’s right making him jump.

“Leave him alone, Arthur,” Nathan says from Harold’s left. “Harold can’t help if he’s in love with his program.”

Arthur sighs. “Work life balance, Harold.”

Harold rolls his eyes. “What did you want me to say, Arthur?”

“Yes!” Arthur holds up his hands as if it was obvious. “I wanted you to say, ‘yes!’”

“Shouldn’t you be working?”

Arthur taps Harold’s computer screen. “You’re telling me this coding is for a class?”

“Of course not, Arthur, Harold did his assignment during class.”

“Yes, of course, because he's a genius.”

“Don’t be jealous, Arthur.” Nathan rubs his hand over Harold’s hair. “He’s much worse at two AM clicking away on his own computer.”

“The famous dorm room model.”

Nathan ruffles Harold's hair again. “Which he made himself.”

“Has it caught fire?”

Harold turns his chair around, escaping from Nathan's distracting ministrations to his hair, and making Arthur and Nathan stand up straight. “Are you two organizing some vaudeville comedy routine?”

Arthur and Nathan make matching incredulous faces at his vaudeville reference. Then Nathan laughs while Arthur leans over closer to Harold’s face.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Harold, and it does seem like you are avoiding the issue, but the women of MIT seem to find you a draw.”

Harold fidgets in his seat and looks away.

“Oh, he knows Arthur.”

“I do not,” Harold says meekly.

Nathan and Arthur chuckle at the same time.

“Could we use that?” Arthur asks Nathan.

Nathan shakes his head. “Not well.”

“Stop,” Harold hisses.

“Maybe it’s because he’s short?”

“You’re short!” Harold snaps back at Arthur.

Nathan chuckles again. “I think not, Arthur. Most women prefer their men tall.” Arthur and Harold glare at Nathan. He shrugs. “Play to your strengths, gentlemen, and I’ll play to mine.”

Arthur huffs. “Yes, charm them with wine you can’t afford and bat your pretty eyes.”

“You think my eyes are pretty? Oh, Arthur.” Nathan pinches Arthur’s cheek.

Arthur just smacks his hand away. “You’re a rouge.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know why they like me so much,” Harold says. “They just...” Harold sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “What did I do?”

Arthur laughs. “I don’t know, Harold, but perhaps you should keep doing it and go on some of those study dates instead of coding advancements for banking systems.”

“I am not –”

Nathan snorts, cutting Harold off. “Better than attempting evolutionary algorithms which are only going to –”

“If you say fail, Nathan…” Arthur starts.

“Okay, okay.” Harold turns back to his computer and presses save. “If I stop working for half an hour will you both cease?” They smile at the same time and stop talking. Harold nods. “There, silence is golden.”

“We’re not in a library, Harold,” Nathan says.

“Though it does appear that some of our fellow students may have murdered us soon if Harold had not intervened,” Arthur says quietly with a head motion toward the other students at computer terminals, several flashing annoyed glances in their direction.

Nathan raises his eyebrows and rocks back and forth on his heels. Harold turns to his computer, saves his program then ejects the floppy disk. He sticks the disk into his case then shuts down the computer.

“Ah ha, we have won him back!” Nathan says.

“Temporarily,” Arthur amends.

“Why am I friends with you two again?” Harold asks grumpily as he puts his backpack over his shoulders.

“I think it has a lot to do with the proximity of my bed to yours in our dorm room.

Arthur laughs once at Nathan then turns a smile to Harold. “Because I am amazing and almost as smart as you are, Harold. Now, lunch. Man cannot survive one C++ alone.”

Though Harold usually considers himself socially awkward, one who would prefer the safety of his computer screen or a library or dorm room, he is grateful to have two friends like Nathan and Arthur so he feels less alone – less alone without Ben. 

––––––––––––––––

Ben drives around the island nearly every day bringing supplies, fixing problems or cleaning who knows what for the Dharma Initiative. 

He brings a box full of composition books for The Swan.

“Thank you, Ben,” Claudia says as she takes the box and walks back into the station without another word, dark circles under her eyes.

He brings replacement equipment to The Flame, a new microphone and spools of wire.

“Have you received any…”

But David is already walking away from Ben, reading over the requisition clipboard without a glance backward.

Strange canisters and jugs with warning labels, ‘do not open,’ ‘flammable,’ weighing alternatively little at all or far more than expected go to The Tempest.

“Just what are all these for?” Ben asks as he and his father carry jug after jug, even gallon drums into the entrance hall of the station.

The man – Edward says his embroidered name badge – only gives him a look and checks the labels on each container.

Ben’s father gives Ben an equally unflattering look. “Don’t bother asking them questions; tight lipped as these are.” Ben's father whacks a hand on one drum, earning both Linuses a glare from Edward.

Ben walks to the motor pool, fixes the broken garage door and replaces rusted tools.

“Thank you, Ben,” Glenn says as he grabs three of the new tools right from the box and is back under the car he slid out from under in the first place.

Ben clenches he jaw and puts the rest of the box away in a standing cabinet.

Ben walks the island, drives the blue Dharma vans over dirt roads, spends hours catering to other’s needs receiving muttered thank yous and rushed goodbyes. He eats meals with his father, avoids his father or is shouted out when he cannot. Ben listens to the wind through the jungle trees, imagines pleasant camp fires and a place with purpose instead of rolling day after day alone.

Ben sits in the field by the far pylon fence. He eats a lunch of a chicken sandwich and chips, the Dharma logo on the bag. He listens to the sound of birds and remembers Harold beside him. He tries to name the birds by song but it feels like years ago that he even recalled a single bird name.

“Robin, Bald Eagle, Great Blue Heron, Gold Finch…” Ben recites to himself.

Ben wonders what the hostiles – the others – are doing right now. What is their day to day? Is it building fires, mending tents? Is it planning the downfall of Dharma? Is it following orders from a man named Jacob whom Ben has yet to see?

“Red Tailed Hawk, Blue Jay, Cardinal, House Finch…”

Ben rubs his hand over his shoulder, still bruised from a fight days before. He takes another bite of his sandwich and wonders what the others talk about around the campfire. Do they have lunch together? Do they laugh, share old stories, talk about those strange people who have invaded their island? Ben wonders if there are children he has not seen yet.

Ben looks at the empty grass beside him. Though Ben usually considers himself self-sufficient, able to survive on his own because he has had to and he will not give up, he often wishes he would not have to walk this path alone – alone without Harold.

––––––––––––––––

When Harold has his first time – her name is Sally Jones and when she kisses him against the door of his dorm room she clearly wants nothing less than a ‘yes’ answer – it has the effect of propelling Ben into his first time as well, due to the pure shock of shared sexual feelings which make Ben shatter a whole box of glass vials when he drops it on the floor in surprise. Because there is no way Ben is going to allow what is occurring with Harold to just byproduct _happen_ to him, Ben ends up in a closet with a nurse at The Staff, Penelope – and isn’t that just stereotypical as well as ironic – so his own flurried sexual encounter bounces right back into Harold making him jerk away from Sally and crack his head on the wall in surprise from the rush of unfamiliar aroused feeling.

It is anything but a normal first time for either of them.

At the end of it all – Harold propped up on his hands in his own bed with Sally and Ben pressed hard into a wall with Penelope – they both lie on their backs, stare up at the air and whisper, “I am going to kill him.”

––––––––––––––––

“I’ll race you,” Arthur says, already typing away on his computer just across from Nathan.

“You can’t race programing,” Harold insists beside Nathan. “It’s not –”

“Watch me,” Arthur says, not letting Harold start a speech on coding being an art and not a sport.

“Give me a scotch and you’re on,” Nathan says as he presses save, pulls out his floppy disc from the drive and shoves in a blank one in less time that is probably safe for the computer.

Arthur huffs. “Scotch? Sounds like you’re forty already.” Arthur slides his head to the side to look at Harold and Nathan through the gap in the computer terminals. “If Harold would let us use his –”

“No.”

“We could be three beers each in by now.”

“Who says I’m not?” Nathan says as he pulls up new programing window.

Arthur raises his eyebrows and wiggles his fingers above his keyboard. “Are you?”

"Why do you need the beer to program?" Harold grumbles.

"Why not?" Arthur and Nathan say together.

Harold sighs and hits the backslash and right bracket keys harder than necessary. Nathan glances at him and raises his eyebrows too. Harold only frowns.

“Cheer up, Harold, do you see us racing to the end of a quine program now?”

“Not yet.”

“It would be an admirable race,” Arthur insists.

Nathan only smiles at Harold and Harold cannot help but smile back. 

“We could also work on class assignments,” Nathan says to Arthur.

Arthur sighs. “Rudimentary, laid out programing to prove already attained abilities?” He groans. “You stifle me.”

“I’m not your professor,” Nathan counters.

“Race me, Nathan; improving one’s concentration, finger dexterity and creative programing methods are useful skills.”

“You just want to say you won, Arthur,” Harold counters.

“Achievement of victory is not a negative motivator.”

“I’m not putting money down,” Nathan says.

“Nor should you. Arthur would win,” Harold says as he types another line of code.

Nathan frowns reproachfully at Harold but without much heart. Harold smirks at Nathan good-naturedly then looks back to his screen. 

Nathan glances over at Harold’s computer screen then nods toward it with his chin. “New program?”

Harold looks back at his screen. “I’ve been thinking about ARPNET and Telenet...”

“Linked computer networks, yes, the future and the dream,” Arthur says suddenly as he leaps up and comes around their side of the computer stations to stand behind Harold and Nathan. “Continue!”

“Yes, but it’s only gone so far…” Harold keys back up the screen toward the top of his program. “The public access has increased but is still minimal.”

“Still not widely marketable,” Nathan adds.

“The possibility of all the computer systems in the country – in the world – to be connected.”

“They will be,” Arthur says, “just give it ten years. It’s inevitable with the doors already open. The stairs to the stars. ” He reaches out and points at Harold’s screen. “You’re thinking about compression? How to make it expand but using less server space for specific programs?”

“That’s one thing,” Harold says to Arthur.

Then Nathan leans forward in his chair. “If a system like Telenet can reach from California to D.C.” He points suddenly at the screen with a new idea. “And you are thinking about comprehensive access.” Then Nathan shakes his head. “But the amount of nodes needed…”

“If I can program… create more memory, the system it supports could flourish, grow,” Harold says waving a hand at the computer screen. “It would need a better base protocol to function realistically if laymen are ever to use it.”

“It’s hardware and software,” Arthur says. “Life brought to a vessel but no way for life without the vessel.”

“Do you always have to throw in a philosophical curve?” Nathan says with an eye roll.

“Computers are the new philosophy, Nathan.” Arthur taps his knuckles on Nathan’s shoulder. “One day they’ll even surpass us.”

“They operate as we tell them, Arthur; there will always be a line they cannot cross,” Harold says sharply.

Arthur snorts. “Ah, the limits of the mind. And why not, Harold? Haven’t you read ‘I, Robot?’”

Harold’s jaw clenches and he turns back to computer. “I believe in innovation not fantasy.”

“And aren’t they the same?” Arthur counters.

“An innovative fantasy?” Nathan tops.

“The fantasy of true innovation?” Arthur cocks his head. “Everything we can think has been thought already?”

Harold feels himself smiling just a bit.

“But not on a computer yet,” Nathan counters with a grin. “The new philosophy of computerized repetitive innovation.”

Arthur and Nathan laugh at the same time – the sound happy, connected, like inspiration if Harold just listens to the bytes of data within the sound. 

“One network connecting the whole country,” Arthur says, pulling them back to Harold’s programing ideas. “Education from your home.”

“Video calling access,” Nathan says. “Increased ease of business dealing with other countries.”

“A computer in every home?” Harold says as he begins to type to the sound of their voices, ideas starting to roll out of him.

Arthur shoots a salute at Harold. “Or even completely computerized defense systems; imagine what it could do for spying.”

Nathan clicks his tongue. “Aw, Arthur, don’t you want to be James Bond in the field?”

“I’ll be Blofeld in ‘Diamonds are Forever’ and pick you off from space.”

Nathan starts to laugh, says something about the use of diamonds as state-of-the-art technology until Arthur is laughing as well, counters with microprocessors made from precious stones. Then Harold is smiling too as his fingers move over the keys. Arthur leans over him, points at the screen again, talks about turning megabyte space into terabytes through compression processes while Nathan talks about the opportunities for monetization and commercialization. Harold keeps typing and sings the song of the MIT Turks in his head. The three of them are the future, right here, the age of change and technology and access to information. Harold feels inspired, feels innovative, like he could create anything, any program, maybe even Arthur’s evolutionary flights of fantasy, in this moment.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits beside Charles as Charles reads over Ben's notes from the past month at a folding desk in Charles’ tent. The paper of Ben's report is white lined in rather stark contrast to the other mismatched pieces of paper on the rest of Charles' desk. Ben wonders if all the paper his people have is meant to look mysterious – parchment-like and often half torn – or do they just not have a ready supply of fresh paper? It is not as if they receive regular pallet drops of supplies or can send off a submarine to the mainland which makes Ben think of a question.

“Do you ever go to the mainland?”

Charles looks up at Ben. “The mainland?”

“Shore, the United States, Japan, any of those countries that are some distance or other from here. Do you leave the island?”

Charles leans back in his chair and puts down the pen. “There are rules, Ben.”

“And leaving the island is one of them?”

Charles shrugs lightly. “A society needs rules or else it falls into chaos.”

“Though shalt not kill?”

Charles chuckles. “As a matter of fact yes, in a way. That happens to be one of our most important rules.”

Ben purses his lips. “I can think of a few infractions.”

“One of our own,” Charles clarifies. “We have a strict rule in our group about not killing any of our own. It is unacceptable and the punishment is severe.”

Ben does not need to ask Charles what the punishment is to know it must be along the lines of ‘an eye for an eye.’ Instead Ben just nods. “I don’t think murder is usually any group’s goal number one.”

Charles cracks half a smile and picks up his pen, leaning over the report once more.

“And that rule about leaving the island?” Ben asks before Charles can write anything. “How does that work?”

Charles sits up a bit straighter. “We don’t leave the island, Ben. We are here to protect it.”

“What about Eloise?”

Charles’ face falls and his jaw clenches. “There were special circumstances.”

“How’s that?”

“None of your concern,” Charles snaps suddenly.

Ben raises both eyebrows in surprise but does not flinch. 

Just then Jean sticks her head in through the tent flap. “Are you shouting again, Charles?”

Charles rolls his eyes where Jean cannot see. Then he turns slightly in his chair and looks back at her. “What is it?”

She steps in under the flap and stands up straight again. “Fishing party is heading out; you said to let you know.”

Charles sighs. “Always the fish.”

“Fish is good for you.”

Charles turns back around to his paper as he speaks. “Take Ben with you as far as their fences.”

Ben and Jean look at each other. She waves a hand behind her with an inquiring look at him. Ben glances at Charles but he is writing on another piece of paper now. Ben stares at the side of Charles’ head for a beat then pushes himself up and out of the canvas chair. He walks over to Jean and passes her out of the tent.

“He’s been grumpier and grumpier each year since Eloise left,” Jean says in a half hush as she falls into step beside Ben.

“Did she leave because of the baby?” Ben asks as they walk through the camp, a few people falling in behind Jean with bags and nets in hand.

Jean gives Ben a look as if he shouldn’t know that but she does not ask him more. She nods instead and looks ahead of them as they walk. “That and other reasons; I don’t pretend to know her thought process.”

“And she hasn’t come back?”

“She can’t.”

Ben frowns and looks sidelong at Jean. “Can’t?”

Jean stops at one tent and picks up a long spear from where it rests against a pole. She picks up her bag from just inside the tent then slings it over her shoulder. She nods her head behind Ben at some of the others then looks at Ben again. “Can’t. If you leave, you don’t come back.”

“Why?”

Jean shrugs. “It’s Jacob’s rule. If you somehow find your way here it is for a reason and if you are able to leave then you are done.”

Ben frowns even more. “Able to leave?”

“Oh, that is a question.” Ben turns to Cassie who is standing beside him now with a folded net over one arm and pulling her blond hair up into a pony tail. “Not everyone can.”

Ben looks back and forth between Jean and Cassie. “Dharma personal leave all the time. They use a submarine.”

“Dharma is different,” Jean says.

“Like they even count,” Cassie says to Jean. “They shouldn’t be here in the first place.” She takes a step closer to Jean. “In fact if we could just –”

“Cassie,” Jean says sharply.

Cassie frowns and drops her hands from her hair. “We are all here for a reason, all of us; you and I.” She points between Jean and herself. “Why do they get to be? Why should they be?”

“It’s not for us to decide,” Jean hisses in an obvious attempt to quiet Cassie down.

Cassie frowns at Jean, takes the spear out of Jean's hand and turns back to Ben. “There are ways to leave if you know the right way but if you leave then your intention had better be to come right back.”

Cassie turns and walks away ahead of them out of the camp. Ben looks at Jean again.

Jean sighs and rubs a hand over her eyes. “It’s complicated, Ben.”

“Sounds like the rules aren’t so clear around here.”

Jean drops her hand and frowns at Ben. “And just why would you care so much about leaving the island anyway, Ben? What other home do you have?”

When Ben walks back into his father’s house at the barracks, he has a copy of Moby Dick thrown at his head ten minutes later with angry words about his absence from work today on the security upgrades. Ben manages to duck out of the way of the book just in time. He does not avoid being slammed back into the dining room table.

––––––––––––––––

One drunken night Harold kisses Nathan. 

“I told you I could hack it.”

“In less than ten minutes even,” Nathan says as he leans over Harold’s shoulder, glass in hand.

“It’s just a university system.”

“But it is MIT.”

Harold laughs and takes another drink from his own glass. “Still only a university.”

“Would I be going too far to call you a genius, Harold?”

Harold smiles. “Call me what you like.”

Nathan laughs again, pleasant and close to Harold’s ear. “Genius Harold Wren, hacker of MIT.”

“Oh yes.”

“Far out pacing the rest of us mere mortals,” Nathan says with his arm over Harold’s shoulders and laughter still in his voice. “Computer genius for whom to offer reverence.”

And then Harold kisses him. For a moment it is simple college fumbling with hurried lips and hands and tongue, a forgotten glass falling to the floor. Then suddenly Nathan tastes like the island – jungle heat and ocean salt and mystery and lost intimacy of someone closer than your own skin. It is an electric shot through the heart.

Harold jerks away so quickly he knocks over his chair and nearly smashes into the wall behind him.

Nathan laughs, unperturbed. “I think you should probably stay away from the whiskey, Harold.” 

Harold only stares at Nathan in horror. He never kisses Nathan again.

––––––––––––––––

Ben works alone in the back office of the orientation building. The filing cabinets are near to reaching their limit and with so many personnel gone now they should be culled. To be fair, Ben will only be moving out dated files from one container to another, from cabinet to box.

“And shipped back to headquarters,” Ben mutters as he tapes the bottom of a cardboard box into place.

Headquarters is supposedly in Michigan but Ben wonders if there even is a headquarters any longer. How does Dharma still have funding when their experiments clearly produce nothing of quality, substance or use? Maybe someone will write a scientific paper someday that no one will read. 

Then he pulls out the file for Annie’s family. It takes him a few seconds to recognize the last name but when he does he drops the other files into the newly constructed box without care for their wellbeing. He stares at the blank cover for a moment then opens the folder. There is an application form, submarine transit form, a house requisition order, a note about The Incident.

“1977…” Ben whispers. It feels so long ago now.

Underneath a small stack of job assignment forms and interview reports, Ben finds a photograph of Annie and her parents. Annie is frozen in time in her eleven year old form – straight hair and smiles with her mother’s hand on her shoulder.

“Annie,” Ben whispers to himself as if he somehow thought she might have been excluded from the file.

He wonders where she is now. Is she in college? Does she have a job? Is she back in the United States or did her parents end up in some other country to continue location research? Does she think about him at all? Does she even remember this island?

A few times when they were still together, when she was his only friend, Ben wondered if they would end up like some movie couple; friends from childhood that see the light one day and get married. It is a juvenile thought but he was a kid then. He is not a kid now, though he certainly wonders what it would be like to kiss her. Has she grown more beautiful with age? Would she make the first move or would he? Would she feel familiar or would she taste like the mainland – far away and forgotten and somehow less? It is a lacking fantasy.

Ben sighs and slips the photo back into the folder.

“Maybe if you hadn’t left,” Ben says to the air and drops the file into the box with the others.

––––––––––––––––

Sometimes Harold cannot stop thinking about the island – about Ben – for an hour, a day, even a week; he does no coding, stares blankly at his notebook in class, stumbles through an exam so he gets a C. Sometimes he cannot push away the memories of a face matching his, a smile which always came when his did, a familiar hand, the one person who he will always know better than anyone no matter how many years they spend apart. Sometimes all he can feel is the hole in his heart.

Harold wonders for a moment, a second, just a passing pain, if maybe he made the wrong choice saying ‘no’ when Ben asked Harold to come with him.

––––––––––––––––

Sometimes Ben cannot stop thinking about the mainland – about Harold – for an hour, a day, even a week; he drives the vans erratically, ignores requests from other Dharma staff, stares at the sky and the altered stars. Sometimes be cannot push away the memories of a voice which matches his own, someone to read with a flashlight beside him, a familiar embrace, the one person he will always care about no matter how many years they spend apart. Sometimes all he can feel is the hole in his heart.

Ben wonders for a moment, a second, just a passing pain, if maybe he made the wrong choice saying ‘no’ when Harold asked Ben to come with him.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits in front of the computer in his dorm room, types quickly and he should probably save soon just in case his computer has another fit. Then the radio transmitter pushed into the back corner of his desk starts to beep. Harold’s fingers freeze and he stares at the boxy type on his screen. Then the transmitter beeps again. Harold slides his chair so quickly to the right that he smashes his knee into one leg of his desk. Harold groans, grabs the headset – shoving it on his head nearly knocking off his glasses – and clicks the connection switch with a grimace turning into a grin.

“Ben?”

“Harold.”

Ben smiles and runs one hand through his hair while the other stays wrapped around the arm of the microphone on his headset.

“Your message it...” Ben says, “it reached... it was just…” Ben laughs once without finishing the sentence, almost embarrassed because neither of them cares how the message really came through. “Harold.”

“Hi, Ben,” Harold says and he laughs once. “Hi.”

“Um…” Ben paces across the floor, glances at the doorway to the main area of The Flame then paces the other way. “It’s been…”

“A couple years,” Harold says blowing out a breath of air to calm his heart.

Ben presses his lips together. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “MIT?”

“It’s good, inspiring, I’m…” Harold glances at his computer, the stack of floppy disks to the left of the monitor and books on his bed. “I have learned so much; become so much better.”

Ben smiles at that, still pacing back and forth in the communications room. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Are you?”

“Of course I am, Harold.” Ben stops pacing. “I always want you to be happy.”

“And I you.” Harold looks out the window as if he could see Ben over the buildings. “Are you happy? Is the Island still… is it what you want?”

“Yes,” Ben says with conviction. “It will be.”

“Yes?”

“I’m patient.”

“And how are … how are things with…”

Ben clenches his teeth. “Yes?”

“How is dad?”

“How is mom?” Ben counters suddenly with a touch of venom in his words.

Harold puts his hands flat on the desk, grounds himself. “Ben, I’m sor…”

“Don’t.”

“Ben, I…”

“Harold, it’s all ri…”

Ben huffs and Harold sighs. They both press two fingers against the middle of their foreheads then drop their hands again.

“I miss you,” the both say at once. Harold clenches his eyes shut and Ben stares straight ahead – Harold sees the blink of a line of red lights. Then Ben lets his eyes fall closed and Harold opens his again – the square of a dark screen behind Ben’s eyes. “I miss you,” they say again.

Ben opens his eyes. “Come back, Harold.”

“Ben…”

“Come back to the island. It is worth it; to have a purpose. It is worth the time, the patience.”

“You don’t need to be patient, Ben,” Harold counters. “You need to leave, to live your life.”

“I am living,” Ben says. 

“Whatever you are waiting for there,” Harold continues undeterred. “Whatever purpose you think you have, how do you know it will come?”

Ben bristles and squeezes his teeth together. “I know.”

“You can’t wait for destiny, Ben. You have to make your own, create your own.”

“I am, Harold, right here, and you can too.”

“No.” Harold shakes his head even though Ben cannot see it. “That island, that place, that is not life. That island is fantasy; you said yourself that Dharma shouldn’t be there. Well, maybe no one should. You should be living life!”

“You don’t understand, Harold,” Ben insists. “The island chose me. It chose me to be here, to protect this place. This island is more important than any life you might think is worth living out there.”

“Worth?” Harold gasps and leans his head back. “This is the world, Ben.”

“And just what living are you doing that is so special, Harold?” Ben says, leans over the desk and the Dharma system computer as if he could reach Harold on the other side. “College? Classes and books? And then what, a job like everyone else? How is that life so much better than this here?”

“You can leave the island, Ben!” Harold says, his voice rising. “Please, you can.”

“No, Harold.”

“I don't want to fight. I need you, Ben, don’t you understand that?”

“And I need you.” Ben waves an arm through the air that Harold cannot see. “How could you think I don’t?”

“You are the one that has to move,” Harold says. “You are the one that can leave that place. I couldn’t even find it and there…” Harold gasps. “On that island there are limits, the possibilities are finite. If you come here, to the world, your possibilities are infinite. We can do anything together!”

Ben suppresses the desire to growl in anger and he takes two deep breaths to calm himself. “You talk about infinite possibilities, Harold, but I don’t need infinity. I don’t need that country. I need this island. I need my people here. I need a purpose.”

“You can find a purpose,” Harold pleads. “Please, you can find one here. You can find one with me.”

Ben shakes his head. “You think there is nothing here, Harold, but there is. This place has power and we can both have it. We can, if you would just come back.”

“No.”

“You remember, I know you do. The things the island can do. My eyes…” Ben laughs. “I can see better than we did at nine, that does not happen!” Ben smiles. “This place is special and so are we; so are you, Harold. Come back.”

Harold shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“And I can’t leave.” Ben shakes his head.

Harold swallows and keeps his breathing even. “But I miss you.”

“And I miss you,” Ben says like the air won’t fill his lungs.

“Come here, Ben, please,” Harold says.

“Please, come back, Harold,” Ben says. 

“Harold?” Harold turns his head sharply to his dorm room door as Nathan starts to open it and Ben looks up at the sound of feet walking toward the communications room and the noise of someone calling, “Ben?”

“I miss you –” Ben says as Harold says, “I’m sorry –“ and “I love you,” Ben says as Harold says, “I miss you –“ and Ben says, “I have to –“ as Harold says “I love you too,” and “I’m sorry” Ben says as Harold says, “Good bye.”

They disconnect the line, pull off their headsets and shut their eyes against the feeling of pain and loss. 

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits beside Arthur in matching red plastic seats at Fenway Park. Arthur offers Harold a sip of his drink but Harold shakes his head. He has a hot dog in one hand which he has not taken one bite of. Arthur is halfway through his.

“I still can’t believe you haven’t been to a baseball game before.”

“I think that would be more believable than other things I have done.”

Arthur snorts. “It’s the American pass time.”

“I spend the majority of my time with computers, Arthur.” 

Arthur glances at him. “Can’t spend all your time with computers.” He takes a sip of his pop and holds up a finger on his hot dog hand. “Plus, you had to grow up at some point. We were all children once running around outside.”

“You don’t know that.” Arthur gives him another look and Harold concedes with a nod. “But baseball, Arthur?”

“Less violent than football, more outdoors than hockey, not to mention it has the benefit of being a team as well as an individual sport.”

“It’s a team sport,” Harold argues.

“Until you are the hitter.” Arthur points to the Red Sox member who is currently at bat. “Right now he is all alone. He hits the ball, he takes his base and, while his team is behind him, where he ends up depends upon him in this moment.”

Harold opens his mouth ready to counter Arthur’s assertion but he cannot. Arthur is quite right. He watches instead. 

The pitcher throws the ball, Arthur mummers ‘high,’ but it looks fine to Harold and the umpire calls ‘strike.’ The catcher throws the ball back to the pitcher again. Harold looks around at the opposing team on the field, the Phillies, all of them either leaning over half way or hunched ready to run toward the ball. Harold can feel it, the tension and excitement of ‘what will happen?’ Then the pitcher throws the ball again and this time the hitter swings his bat and connects.

“Oh!” Arthur shouts, jumps to his feel and Harold jumps with him at the sudden soar of the ball higher and further than any have been in the two innings so far.

The player runs toward first base, his bat flies out of bounds and three of the outfielders are running back towards the edge of the field.

“Arthur!” Harold cries in excitement, griping Arthur’s arm with his free hand.

“It’s out of the park!” Arthur says as they both can see the trajectory of the ball heading into the stands to their left.

Two people reach for the ball in the stands, the winner falling back when she catches it with one hand. Half of the Red Sox are climbing out of the dugout cheering for their teammate as he runs past second. The fans in the stands are cheering as well, clapping vigorously as the player hits third and runs home. Harold can feel a grin spread wide across his face.

“And that is baseball,” Arthur says bumping his elbow into Harold’s arm. 

As they watch the game through seven innings – one fight with the umpire, third stolen twice, a near home run that was instead caught by an outfielder so he smashed into the field wall and a very dramatic moment in inning six when the Red Sox got all three players on base out.

“This is amazing,” Harold says to Arthur somewhere around the fifth inning.

Arthur grins back at him. “Not everything is computers, Harold. Good to take some time to smell the hotdogs and listen to the crack of the bat.”

“Sports philosophy from you too?”

“I have many talents.”

Harold did not play sports when he was in Iowa, not on the island, and not in Oregon. He has not seen the appeal before of running around fields or smashing into other players to gain advantage or ground as if it were a war like in football or soccer or rugby. Nor has he ever found interest in individual sports, tennis or golf, where the joy appears to come more from the playing than the watching. Baseball is different. Baseball goes from calm and quiet to sudden bursts of action, surprises from individuals on how they will hit the ball then back to the team with how well or not they work together. There is even math at the root of it all – ball curve, bat weight, angles and speed. This is a game Harold could fall in love with.

––––––––––––––––

 

Ben’s father sits at the small kitchen table, half of his dinner still on his plate and far less than half of a bottle of whiskey in his right hand. Ben cannot stop staring at him. His father raises the bottle to his lips, takes another long drink and puts the bottle back onto the table again. He shifts his fork around his plate, pushing his peas deeper into his mashed potatoes. He looks like a sulking five year old.

"Are you done?" Ben asks tersely.

"Do I look done?" His father replies in the same tone, barely looking at Ben.

"You haven't eaten anything in the past ten minutes."

"Didn't realize you were counting." Ben sighs. "And," his father continues. "I have had something." He lifts the bottle again, gives Ben a smug look and finishes the last bit.

"Whiskey doesn't count as food, dad."

Ben stands up, picks up his own plate and takes his father's from him. His father does not try to stop him. Ben puts his own plate in the sink, scrapes off his father's plate into the trash bin then puts that plate in the sink too. Ben turns back to the table and takes his father's fork from his hand.

"Could stand to be a bit polite," his father grumbles.

"May I please have your fork?" Ben says still holding the fork.

His father only frowns. Ben turns around back to the sink and turns on the water. Behind him, he hears his father's chair scrape against the floor. Ben tries not to tense up.

"I need a new bottle."

Ben grits his teeth. "I think half a bottle was enough."

"I need another," his father mutters not listening to Ben as he starts to open cabinets.

Ben stares at his hands under the hot water, waterfalls spilling over his fingers into the pot below, bubbling with soap and overflowing onto the plates underneath. He thinks about taking the pot, turning around and bashing his father in the head with it.

"Where..." his father mutters. "Not here..."

"Maybe you don't have any more," Ben says.

"I do."

"But maybe you don't."

"If I say I have some then I have some!" His father snaps.

Ben looks up and stares out of the window. "Right."

The cabinet behind Ben slams with a disgruntled noise from his father. Ben rubs a sponge over a plate as his father starts to search in the living room. Ben rinses the plate and puts it in the dish rack.

"There has to be something!" His father stalks back into the kitchen and looks in a lower cabinet.

Ben shoots a glare over his shoulder but his father is engrossed with the cabinet. "There's nothing, dad, if you stopped drinking it all so fast perhaps there would be." Ben turns back to the sink. "Just go to bed."

Ben hears an angry growl from behind him. Ben turns just in time to jump to the side and miss being hit by the empty whiskey bottle which smashes into the wall between the sink the window. His father takes one large step and smacks Ben across the face so hard he knocks back into the counter.

"You will show me some respect!"

Ben spits out blood as he stares at the floor.

He is twenty-one years old now. He is not a child. He is not stupid or idle or a drunk. He is not his father. He has Harold – he will always have Harold no matter where they are. He has been patient, so very patient. And he is not alone on this Island. He has a destiny.

Ben pulls his head up and stares at his father. "That is the last time. The last. I swear, just try it again. Just try it!"

"What?" His father steps closer and raises his hand again, moving quickly. "What will you do?"

Ben grabs his father's hand barely before he finishes his the word 'do,' inches from his face and bends it back at a painful angle so his father cries out.

"I'll kill you," Ben whispers right in his father’s ear.

Come morning, they sit at the kitchen table again with no mention of the night before or the bruise on Ben's cheek. As far as Ben can tell his father does not remember anything said. 

Though his father’s usual behavior remains surly and dismissive and many of his words unkind, after that night he never hits Ben again.

––––––––––––––––

“Are you done, Harold? Over.”

Harold rolls his eyes, puts down his plyers and clicks the button on the handheld radio. “Nearly, if you would stop interrupting me.”

After a pause the radio crackles with Arthur’s voice again. “You have to disable the alarm, that is the key or Nathan is going to get expelled. Over.” There is a pause. “And say ‘over’ when you are done. Over.”

“I think you can tell when my sentence is finished, Arthur.” There is a long pause as Harold fiddles with the wires then he sighs and clicks the button the radio again. “Over.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says. “Over.”

“And you two done yet?” Nathan’s voice suddenly says. “I am right outside the door to the stairs. Over.”

Harold cuts a wire and reroutes another so no back up alarm can be triggered in the security office. Harold checks the wires one more time – it reminds him of The Flame, the wall of communications equipment full of small lights and dials, far more complicated than this simple electrical box. The alarm is disabled. 

Harold picks up his radio. “Disarmed. Have fun, Nathan. Over.”

“The camera system is looped,” Arthur says. “Down to you Nathan and your giant love note. Over.”

“It’s an anti-nuclear protest, Arthur. Over.” Nathan says.

Harold hears Arthur laughing as he connects the line again. “And yes, you had to splatter this protest statement at the Harvard/Yale game when we attend MIT. Over.”

“Leave him alone, Arthur,” Harold says as he puts the casing back on the electrical box. “Who doesn’t want the opportunity to hack a Diamond Vision screen? Over.”

“And for completely activist reasons. Over,” Arthur adds.

“I’m in," Nathan says, ignoring Arthur’s inferences. “If I need help, I will call one of you. Now get into the stadium so you can see the results first hand. Over.”

“And see how Melissa Case reacts. Over,” Arthur counters.

“Good luck, Nathan,” Harold says as he puts his tools away in his messenger bag. 

Harold glances in the direction of the stadium to meet up with Arthur but part of him is worried about Nathan and the hacking. While Nathan is a fine programmer and certainly has a good mind for the business side of computer work, his hacking skills are not as refined. Hacking requires a certain level of creativity and ability to think outside of the rules which often eludes Nathan. Harold puts the radio in his back pocket and heads down the basement hallway toward the stairs.

Ten minutes later, Harold quietly climbs the stairs at the back of the stadium until he finds Nathan standing just inside the small control closet for the stadium mega screen feed.

“Nathan,” Harold hisses.

Nathan turns his head sharply at his name but the tension in his shoulder eases instantly when he sees it is Harold. “Glad you’re here.” He points at the computer terminal in the wall. “This thing is horrific.”

Harold chuckles and slides up beside Nathan to look at the screen. The computer is a very basic HP model and certainly designed for the sole purpose of powering the feed to the screen.

“I am sure we can work around the program’s deficiencies.”

“I got as far as –”

“Yes, I see, but it doesn’t have –“

“Exactly, and I know…”

Harold starts to laugh. “Don’t worry, Nathan, if I just do this.” Harold types quickly, accesses the base programing and adds some new commands. “I think we can bend it to your will.”

Nathan ruffles Harold hair and Harold shoots him a glare. Nathan only grins at him. “Thank you.”

“You knew I would come up here, didn’t you?”

“Of course, you’re the one who is good at changing resistant programs and hardware in unexpected ways.” Harold looks at Nathan again as he types, somewhat confused. Nathan cocks his head. “Like conventional radio transmitters married with modern computer systems.”

Harold swallows once and looks back at the computer screen. He types a few more lines then pulls his hands away. “Done, you can show your activism now.” He steps back from the keyboard interface and holds out a hand inviting Nathan forward.

“You never use it, Harold,” Nathan says, not moving toward the keyboard. “I haven’t seen you use it once. So what is it?”

Harold only stares at him.

“You won’t even tell me?” Nathan’s fingers flutter once like he wants to grab Harold and shake the answer out of him. Harold still stays silent.

Nathan presses his lips together tightly then his expression melts into a casual smile. “Okay.” 

He turns to the computer. “How do you like this, Melissa,” Nathan mutters but Harold feels as though there isn’t as much humor and heart in it as Nathan usually has.

As they hurry down the stairs and out the back exit, they hear the noise of surprise begin and rise through the audience in the stadium. There are scatters of applause, attempts to regain control from the announcers and even laughter. Harold shakes Nathan’s shoulder once and they are both smiling again.

“Good idea?” Nathan asks.

“Fun at least.”

“You can add ‘hacking a display board at a baseball game’ now to your list of accolades, Harold.”

Harold shakes his head. “We did it together.”

Nathan grins back. “We do work well together, don’t we?”

Harold nods. “Proper programing on your end and hacking on mine?”

Nathan laughs. “We all know your programing exceeds all of ours in scope and talent, both proper and improper.”

Harold shrugs. “I’m not saying I’m a genius…”

Nathan only laughs and slings an arm over Harold’s shoulder as they walk around the edge of the stadium toward one of the entrances.

“Where are you two? Over,” Arthur voice asks suddenly over their radio line. “You should see Melissa Case’s face. Over.”

Harold and Nathan look at each other again and start laughing. 

For a moment as they walk, screen with the message coming into view as they enter the stadium, Harold thinks about Ben. Does Ben have these moments too, these moments of laughter and friendship? Ben walking beside them, keeping look out for stadium employees, joking with Nathan about extreme measures for female interest. Harold thinks if Ben were here the prank would have been even more fun.

“We should do this again sometime, Nathan,” Harold says.

Nathan snorts. “With the expectation of more activist women in our lives?”

“Because we can.”

“We won’t be in college forever, Harold.” Nathan’s voice turns somewhat more sober. “We’ll have to grow up eventually.”

Harold scoffs, refuses to come down. “All right. When we graduate, Nathan, I give you permission to make my programing and hacking skills completely professional.”

Nathan gives him an odd look. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart.” And Harold decides that he trusts Nathan more than (almost) anyone else.

Nathan drops out of MIT three weeks later.

––––––––––––––––

“So forget about things like head shots,” Tom says. He points down the line of the gun. “They are too hard, at least at first, and center mass works just as well.”

“Plus, sometimes it is better to incapacitate rather than kill,” Jean adds. “So legs are good too.”

“Legs can also be hard,” Cassie says. “But at least then you have two of them.”

“I’m shooting at cans, there are no heads or center mass or legs to shoot at.”

“He has a point,” Pryce says from behind them where he sits eating an apple. “But,” he waves a hand as Ben looks over his shoulder at him, “you’re not shooting at me so what do I care?”

Jean and Ben both laugh. Cassie winks at Pryce and makes a fake shooting motion with two hands at him. Pryce puts a hand to his forehead in a fake swoon. Jean laughs again. Tom only rolls his eyes and taps Ben’s shoulder so he turns back around.

“Focus,” Tom says.

“I am.”

“You wanted to learn to shoot properly, so pay attention.” Ben nods as Tom points at the line of cans on the log in front of them. “The point I was trying to make,” Tom fixes Jean and Cassie next to Ben with a look and throws one back at Pryce. “Is that even though things like headshots are difficult and these cans are small, you want to start with the smaller targets so you can work on the effort of aiming. You start small and then when your targets are bigger it becomes easier.”

“Except then they are moving,” Cassie says with a dry tone.

“Hush,” Jean says. “Keep that killer fever at bay.”

“I think I have just cause.”

“Maybe.”

“Ladies,” Tom hisses.

Pryce snorts and everyone quiets down. Ben cannot help but smile.

“Okay, Ben, let’s see what you can do.”

“Remember to use the sights,” Jean whispers.

“Shh!” Pryce and Cassie hiss together.

Ben uses his right eye to gaze through the rifle sights at the four cans a few yards away. He picks the second can from the left as his target. He imagines a tan Dharma uniform wrapped around the small metal container. He breathes out slowly and pulls the trigger. The can he was aiming for flies off the log to the right, knocking down the one next to it as well. Cassie makes a whooping noise while Jean claps her hands slowly three times.

“All right,” Tom says. “So you mostly nicked that one on the left. This time you want to try and compensate for that, pull your eye and the rifle a bit more to the right, not too much though.”

“Don’t want to overcompensate,” Ben fills in.

“Exactly.”

“Just imagine the word ‘Security’ under a Dharma logo,” Cassie offers. “Always helps me.”

“You are unbelievable,” Jean says with a huff but she is smiling.

Pryce wolf whistles and Cassie throws a smile back at him. He grins. “Keep that fire burning, baby.”

“Always.”

“If I was here all the time,” Ben says with a smile, “I bet this would get annoying.”

“You have no idea,” Jean says.

“Ben?” Ben glances at Tom again. He smiles and gestures with his head toward the cans. “Try again?”

Ben nods and shifts his grip on the rifle. He ejects the spent cartridge and loads in another shell. He looks down the sights at the can on the far left, adjusts just slightly to the right. He thinks about the Hydra, about the security guard he shot. How did fire so easily then? Was it just luck? Was it adrenaline? Was it the Dharma logo giving him a reason? Ben stares at the can, breathes out slowly and for a moment imagines his father’s face. Ben pulls the trigger. The can flies off the log straight back onto the ground.

“Yes!” Tom says happily and claps Ben on the back.

“Perfect shot!” Cassie says.

Jean and Pryce clap a few times with murmurs of praise. Ben pulls the rifle down from his shoulder and looks at the cans on the ground. He turns and grins at Cassie and Jean. Ben wonders for a moment what Harold would say. Could Harold fire a gun like this? Would he even want to? Harold in the jungle, Harold learning to aim and shoot beside Ben. Ben thinks if Harold were here they would both be perfect shots.

“Gotta have the right motivation, yeah?” Cassie says and Ben looks over at her.

Jean puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a natural, kid.”

Ben grins. “At least with cans.”

“Next you’ll have to work on moving targets,” Tom says.

Ben’s makes a face so Jean and Cassie start to laugh beside him. And Ben decides this is his real family (almost) right here.

––––––––––––––––

Harold waits in line with the rest of his class to process to their seats for the start of the graduation ceremony. Harold cranes his neck, tassel trying to stick in his glasses, to see ahead of him and look for Arthur. He catches Arthur’s eye as he looks over his shoulder in the same searching fashion. Arthur shoots him a double thumbs up and Harold smiles nervously. Harold is graduating top of their class across the year, not just in the electrical engineering and computer science department. Fortunately, MIT frowns on flouting GPAs in favor of collaboration so Harold does not have to give a speech.

“Ready?” someone asks behind Harold though he hardly hears them.

He throws a smile behind him and looks forward again, blowing out a slow breath. He has been working toward this day for four years but what he really wants to get to is after that. He wants to start work, he wants to continue his programing, he wants to change the world.

“Two lines!” Someone shouts near the front. “Left line to the left side of the chairs, right to the right, you get the idea. Do not leave any seats in between!”

The lines begin to move forward out of the staging building and onto the field of Killian Court. When Harold finally walks out the first thing which hits him is the amount of chairs. The next is the flash of hundreds of camera flashes from family members encircling the edges of the graduate seats. Harold blinks rapidly and focuses on walking, his head slightly down. 

“Crap…” someone gasps behind him and another person laughs in a somewhat manic way, though still in a hush.

For a moment Harold thinks about his mother, wishes he could search the crowd for her face. 

They file up the middle to the music of Pomp and Circumstance. It makes Harold want to grind his teeth but luckily he can only half hear the music over all the audience chatter. When they finally come to their aisle, Harold sees Arthur is seated on the same side as him only many rows ahead. Harold wishes he could see Nathan in the crowd; he knows Nathan is here somewhere to cheer them both on despite his drop out. Harold sits down, pushes the extra folds of his graduation robe out of the way, then hisses in pain as something slashes across his face.

One piece of glass slashes across Ben’s face as he jumps out of the way of the blast from the window. He hits the floor hard, the clipboard in his hand skidding away and the air knocked out of his lungs for five long seconds. Then Ben breathes in hard, hears David shouting something, and he heaves himself back to his feet.

“Come on!” David shouts and tosses one of the Dharma security rifles at Ben.

Ben catches the gun and follows David out the front door of The Flame. The windows are broken and a fire burns up the wall and in the grass outside. The cows are mooing loudly in alarm.

“We have to put out the fire!” Ben shouts.

“Stop!” Ben looks up at the sound of David’s voice. “No!”

Ben sees his Dharma van pulling away from the dirt drive of The Flame. He recognizes Cassie in the driver’s seat and a man beside her, maybe Marco? David shoots at the van, missing both shots as the van wheels around and heads away down the road. Ben sees the blur of at least one more person in the back seat.

“Stop!” David shouts again, starts to run after the van but it is already far out pacing him. David stops after only a few yards of running then looks back at Ben. “It’s the hostiles!”

Ben has to work very hard not to grin like a madman. 

It must be now, it is happening now. Why Charles did not tell Ben about the plan he does not know but in this moment he does not care. They are finally getting rid of Dharma. This has to be it, right now.

Ben clears his throat to hide his excitement and plasters a confused look on his face. “What?”

“The hostiles! It was them. The hostiles! They…” David huffs and runs back toward Ben. “They have to be heading to the barracks. We need to warn them!”

David runs past Ben back into The Flame. Ben clenches his jaw and stares at the fire burning up the wall. He pivots and marches back into The Flame. David has just made it to the doorway of the communications room.

“David?”

He turns back around. “What?”

Ben shoots him in the chest just lower than his heart. David blinks in astonishment, looks down at the blood beginning to leak from his chest then falls back against the wall, barely missing the open doorway. He slides slowly down the wall, looks up at Ben as he hits the floor then crumples to the side in a heap. Ben hoists the strap of the gun over his shoulder then turns away back out the door. As he walks into the sunlight, Ben reaches up and wipes blood away from the cut on his face. He smiles and feels dizzy.

As Harold stands for his row to proceed up toward the stage – the speeches over – he feels a wave of nausea pass over him and slight dizziness as he forces himself to walk forward.

“Harold.” Ashish behind him grips Harold’s arm to steady him.

“I’m fine,” Harold says, waving a hand at Ashish and keeps walking.

The dizziness fades and the nausea passes almost immediately. Harold breathes in slowly and follows the person in front of him out of their line of chairs and into the edge up toward the stage. More family members snap photos of them as they walk, a few people in front of Harold giving quick waves as they walk. The dean of students reads out names as they walk. Harold realizes, only half aware, that they are onto the T’s now and Harold missed seeing Arthur walk across the stage ages ago.

Harold looks up at the stage with Building 10 behind it, classical with its Greek columns and dome top. It certainly harkens back to the idea of knowledge and learning which university is supposed to espouse. Then he glances to the right into the audience. The rows of seats and people seem to go all the way back through the trees and into the side gardens. Harold wonders absently if anyone seated there can actually see the proceedings.

“Harold!”

Harold does not so much as clearly hear Nathan shout his name as his eye catches Nathan in the act. Harold finds himself grinning as he sees his friend. Nathan grins at him and shakes the camera in his hand. Harold rolls his eyes at Nathan but smiles away so Nathan can try and catch a photo. It feels silly but Harold is immensely grateful. 

‘Thank you,’ Harold mouths as he walks on, a tree blocking Nathan before Harold can see any kind of reply.

Harold turns back to the line as they near the stairs. Harold breathes in and out, focuses on the task of walking up the stairs and not tripping.

“Here we go,” Harold whispers to himself.

He hears the man in front of him laugh once quietly at his words. Then they walk up the stairs, the man in front of Harold walks on across the stage and Harold waits, next in line. Then,

“Harold Wren.”

Harold walks forward, shakes the dean’s hand, shakes the head of his department’s hand and takes his diploma with his other. His adrenaline is high, his focus is sharpened into the tiniest point; it is such a rush.

Ben runs through the jungle toward the barracks, his adrenaline high, his focus sharpened into the tiniest point; it is such a rush. He veers off the van road and into the trees. He knows a short cut that the others take, no worry of Dharma personnel in his path. He slips under vines, the cut on his face stinging but he pays no notice.

‘I’m coming,’ Ben whispers in his head. ‘I’m coming, it will finally be over.’ He will be free.

Ben bursts out of the jungle ten minutes later onto the road again where it passes through the sonic fence. He sees a few people running on the other side in Dharma uniforms shouting something he cannot hear. Ben skids to a halt and falls to his knees in front of one fence pole. He flips open the panel, enters the code and does not stop to turn the fence back on after he runs through. 

As he breaks through the tree line closer to the main Dharma barracks, he starts to question what he thought was happening. The first thing he sees is two Dharma vans, one on its side and the other behind it clearly having rammed into the other. There are people running, most toward the security center or in the direction of the dock. Everyone he sees has on a Dharma uniform; there are none of his people.

“What happened?” Ben says, grabbing the first person who runs closest.

“Hostiles, the – the hostiles!” She says with a stutter, pointing behind her at the vans.

“But what happened?” Ben snaps again and shakes her once. 

“They drove in, got past the fence.” She breathes in sharply. “Shot Calvin but the vans crashed… I didn’t… I didn’t see…”

Ben looks up at the vans. He sees his father and another Dharma man extracting a body from the van on its side. It is Paul – Ben did not know much about him beyond his name – clearly dead. Ben swallows hard and looks at the woman again.

“Where are they?” Ben asks. She only stares at him. “The hostiles! Where are they?”

“I don’t… security is tracking them.”

Ben drops her arm and runs toward the security center, knocking at least one person down in his rush. This is not right. This does not feel like a plan. Ben hits the door of security and runs down the steps. At first it is silent. Ben sees a stack of papers strewn about the floor and one of the screens on the video bank is cracked down the middle. Ben pulls his gun off his shoulder and steps in a further. Then he sees a splash of blood on the floor.

“Cassie!” Ben shouts.

Something hits Ben hard in the jaw.

Harold nearly falls back into his seat, diploma in hand, as pain shoots through his jaw. Harold hisses and holds his hand over the side of his face. He closes his eyes and counts to five, the sound of names still being read out at the stage. Harold opens his eyes again as the pain subsides. 

“Ben…” Harold whispers so no one but he can hear.

He looks up at the lines of soon to be graduates walking toward the stage, one after another. He sees Arthur laughing rows ahead of him and clapping his hand on the back of the woman next to him.

Harold looks down at the thick red folder in his hand with his diploma inside, the MIT crest embossed on the leather front. He has a degree now, an education; he has a bright future ahead of him while somewhere across the world something bad is happening to his brother. 

Harold has to shut his eyes.

Ben opens his eyes after a moment of darkness and stars and he is on the ground, shoulder throbbing and jaw feeling worse. He looks up and sees the security guard Anthony pointing his gun down at Ben.

“Who is Cassie?” He looks unsure, his finger not on the trigger but his body still tense. “Did you… are you…” He looks up behind Ben, glances once quickly behind himself then back to Ben. “Who is Cassie?”

Ben shakes his head, plays the fool again. “What are you talking about? What is happening?”

“There were two women with them, was one of them Cassie? Are you…” He huffs. “Are you with them?”

“With who?”

“You know who, Ben! The hostiles!”

Ben clears his throat carefully, putting his hands up in a soothing and placating manner. “Calm down, Anthony. I do not know what is going on. I went to The Flame to help David with the communications equipment but when I arrived there was a fire and David had been shot.”

Anthony looks alarmed. “What? David was shot?”

Ben starts to sit up, gets onto his knees with his hands still up. Where did his gun fall? “It must have been the hostiles. You said they are here? What happened?”

“They came in… we were chasing them from…” Then Anthony frowns. “They had a van. They got to The Flame and then they had a van.”

Ben watches Anthony’s face make the connection between Ben and the van and The Flame. Before he can focus the idea into action, Ben heaves himself up to standing and grabs the end of the gun. Anthony is pulled off balance, his hold not quite secure on the weapon and Ben yanks it hard mostly out of his hands. Anthony tries to pull it back and they struggle for a moment, back and forth.

“Anthony!” Ben sees another security guard, Mitch, appear behind Anthony from the hall. “I got her and the other one, do you – what the hell!”

Ben yanks the gun fully out of Anthony’s hands so Anthony stumbles backward, Mitch brings his gun up from his side, and Ben shoots Anthony in knee so he falls to the floor groaning.

“Son of a –”

“Say one more thing and it’s more than his knee!” Ben snaps at Mitch. Mitch closes his mouth but does not lower his gun. “Where are they?” Ben asks keeping his gun on Anthony.

“They’re dead,” Mitch says.

Ben grits his teeth together and hisses through them, “you’re lying.”

“No.”

“Where are they?”

Mitch smiles in a cruel way. “I remember the blond one. We had her for a bit at The Hydra, cracked pretty easy under the doctor’s testing. I shot her myself.”

Ben stares blankly at Mitch. He does not say anything, does not move. He just stares at Mitch. Then he says, “oh, really?” Ben shoots Anthony in the other leg so he screams. “Like that?”

Mitch starts in surprise and his eyes go wide. “You…” His hands twitch on the gun.

Ben cocks his head. “Did you shoot her like that?”

“Now, just wait a minute!”

Ben shoots Anthony once more, this time not in the leg, and he suddenly feels an unfamiliar, overwhelming rush of joy, of accomplishment which he knows in the back of his mind does not belong to him – that belongs to Harold.

Harold grins, claps along with his class, forgets the strange pains from across the sea and feels a rush of joy, of accomplishment as the dean says, “Congratulations MIT graduates!”

Harold’s classmates are cheering around him, waving at their families, smiling for cameras and clapping louder. Harold wants to jump up, wants to run to Arthur and hug him, to find Nathan in the crowd. He wants to tell his mother what he has done, wants to show her that, yes, he is as smart as she knew and he will go far.

“Harold!” Nathan calls to him as the students file off the field. 

Harold cuts out of the line as they reach the terminus of the graduate chair block and heads toward the sound of Nathan’s voice.

“Nathan?”

He tries to find Nathan among the sea of graduation robes and red folders and too many family members. Then he sees Arthur with Nathan beside him, shaking Arthur’s hand. Nathan looks up and sees Harold.

“Ah ha, the valedictorian arrives!”

Arthur laughs once hard. “The conquering genius we all knew him to be.”

“Stop,” Harold says but he is smiling.

Arthur grabs Harold as soon as he is close enough and gives him a big hug. “Congratulations, Mr. Wren!”

“Likewise, Mr. Claypool,” Harold says.

“Congratulations to both of you,” Nathan says gesturing between them. “Pretty sharp MIT diploma cases you both have there; will look great on future office walls.”

Arthur scoffs. “He jests and yet you were on your way. We miss you among our number, Nathan.”

Nathan shakes his head. “Wasn’t for me. I have other plans.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Ah, yes, ever the business man of mystery. I can’t wait to hear what these plans are.”

“Yes,” says Harold looking at Nathan with more interest than Arthur’s humor. “That would be interesting to hear.”

Nathan’s eyes tick to Harold and Harold knows instantly that Nathan is already in motion.

“Alas, I cannot hear your goals of becoming the next IBM just yet, Mr. Ingram,” Arthur says. He is looking past them into the crowd. “It appears my parents are ready to fawn all over me and take ten hundred photos.”

Nathan chuckles and claps his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, shaking once. “Mazel Tov.”

Arthur nods at both of them. “See you later.”

Harold turns to Nathan as Arthur walks away leaving just the two of them. “Plans?”

“Yes.” Nathan smiles. “I hope for both of us if you want to know.”

“Yes,” Harold says.

“No,” Ben says and waits for Mitch to shoot him.

He hears the gun shot, closes his eyes and feels nothing. He opens his eyes again and sees Mitch fall to his knees, gun clattering to the floor. Behind him, half held up by the wall is Jean. She is bleeding from the stomach and has more blood matted around her hair and in her eye. Ben drops his rifle and rushes over to. Her gun arm falls to her side as she slides down the wall, leaving a smear of blood.

“Ben…. We… we tried…” she gasps.

Ben touches her face, puts his hands over her stomach. “We have to stop your bleeding. I have to get you out of here.”

“Ben…” She grips his hand tightly. “We had to find the formula… we had to stop them. They are going to kill us all.”

Ben stares at her blankly. “What formula? What do you mean?”

“He killed Cassie… the other one shot…” Jean makes a sound like a cross between a growl and sob. “You can’t let them… you can’t let them kills us, Ben.”

Ben wants to jump up, to carry her out, to stop the bleeding. “Jean, I have to help you get away.”

“Too… too late…” She gasps and it sounds like tearing. “You have to stop them, Ben. They are… they are planning…” She gasps again and her eyes roll back her head.

“Jean!” Ben says. He shakes her. “Jean.”

She gasps again and her eyes focus on him. “The Tempest! Ben… the Tempest…” Then she sags back against the wall with a horrible sound like air deflating from a balloon. 

“Jean…” Ben squeezes her shoulder, shakes her once more but the sound was unmistakable. “Jean…” Ben breathes in hard and he knows he is crying. “Jean!”

He abruptly lets go of her so she slumps back against the wall, slowly sliding down until she is on the floor. Ben feels himself shaking. He does not understand what has happened. He does not understand what she was trying to say to him. He feels suddenly alone in a way he has not felt in thirteen years since that night on the dock. He does not understand what has happened.

“Harold…” Ben whispers.

“Ben…” Harold says quietly to himself.

“What?”

Harold blinks and focuses on Nathan across the table in front of him. “What?”

“You said ‘Ben’ which seems to be rather unrelated to my idea of us starting a company together.” Nathan makes a circle in the air with his fork. “Changing the world and all?”

“Right…” Harold nods, glances down at the remains of his dinner then up at Nathan again. “Right.”

“Who’s Ben?”

“What?”

Nathan raises his eyebrows, serious for once. “You don’t usually say things without a reason, Harold.”

Harold breathes out slowly – thinks about the island, about being alone, about Ben. Harold meets Nathan’s eye. “Harold Wren isn’t my real name.”


	6. Chosen Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Is this just going to be the rest of our lives… apart?”_   
>  _“No, Harold, it won’t be. Things will change and soon.”_   
>  _“Soon?”_   
>  _“They have to.”_
> 
> [Ben and Harold becoming adults. And growing apart.]

Ben stands beside Richard inside the temple of the Island. He was told of its existence, mentions in passing, but he has never stood inside. It reminds him of a picture he saw in one of Olivia’s books of Machu Picchu. The stones are old, weather worn and brown like they were created with the island itself. Grass grows up around the walls at various spots and the ground is dirt. Trees and vines hang over the edges like friends whispering words of calm and peace. The entrance is tall and wide with columns on either side. It does not feel like it can be classified; not ancient, even though it is old nor new, even though it feels so alive; not Greek or Mesopotamian or any remembered civilization. Inside the space of the temple walls Ben feels like this is all the world would ever need, these stones and these pillars and the water within. The whole place feels like reverence and it brings tears to Ben’s eyes just standing there.

A few yards away, their people stand in a group, Charles at the head speaking softly so Ben cannot hear from this distance. He does not need to hear what Charles says to know the content.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get them back,” Ben says to Richard.

“We understand.”

“It’s not right.”

“If you had brought them back it would have exposed you.”

“But they deserve –”

“We are giving them our respects here, Ben.” Richard looks at Ben. “There would not have been anything more holy to them than this place.”

“But a burial…”

“Everyone seems to think that burial is necessary that your body has to go back to the ground or the sea or turn to ash but I can tell you a body is not the sum of your life, Ben.” Ben looks at Richard sidelong and Richard smiles. “Burials are for the living, Ben, not the ones who died.”

Ben nods once and looks away again. Logically he knows that Richard is right but he also know what he needs, what all of them need, and it is not leaving Jean and Cassie and Paul for Dharma to throw away. Ben clenches and unclenches his fists slowly.

“Jean, she…” Ben clears his throat to cover the crack he feels in his voice.

“There is always danger out there, Ben.” Richard glances at the funerary proceedings then back to Ben. “With a place like this…” He gestures slightly around them obviously meaning the whole island. “It is always going to be fought over.”

“And need to be protected,” Ben says.

“And they knew that.”

Ben nods and stares at his people, all wearing white robes as they face the front of the temple. As he watches, Ben feels like he remembers being here before, sometime when he was small and in pain.

“You should go, Ben.”

“Not yet.”

“With this new incident they are on high alert. You cannot be gone so long.”

“Richard…”

“Ben.” Ben turns his head at the sharpness in Richard’s tone. “If you want to honor them, if you want to help fight for what they fought, then you have to stay where you are. You have to keep your position on the inside. Be patient.”

Ben’s jaw clenches. “I never thought patience would be like this.”

“Life doesn’t turn out like we expect,” Richard says and Ben wonders not for the first time how old Richard really is.

“I’ll be patient,” Ben says quietly. “But I won’t forget this.”

“None of us will.”

Ben nods and speaks to himself as he turns away toward the temple door. “And I won’t let Dharma forget it either.”

––––––––––––––––

“Welcome to the future home of Ingram and Wren Industries.” Nathan turns around in a circle with his hands in the air. “Or would you rather your real –”

“Nathan, come on.”

Nathan grins and drops his arms. “We could use a different alias? If you stick to the bird route you could use flamingo.” Nathan chuckles at his own joke.

“I didn’t tell you about my past for you to make bird jokes.”

“And while I appreciate that you told me the whole truth of your youthful indiscretion,” Nathan says. 

‘Not the island, not Ben,’ Harold thinks but says nothing. 

“You cannot expect me to not make a bird jokes now,” Nathan continues, “when I held off on the Wren thing for our whole time at MIT.”

Harold glances around the space, ignoring the bird subject, and points at the few desks and computers set up. “How did you even have the money to rent office space or buy these computers?”

“That would be a loan, Harold. Learn the business side sometime.”

“Right.”

“Well? Come on, Harold; give me something back besides your criticism and doubt.”

Harold raises his eyebrows. “I’m still not sure how I feel about this. If what you want…”

“To change the world, Harold, to push the boundaries of computing and technology.”

“Yes, if that should happen…”

“It will, Harold, especially with you on my side.” Harold colors slightly and looks away. He hears Nathan make a soft noise like a laugh. “It’s true, Harold. One might call it ego but I call it fact.”

Harold looks at him again. “And that is precisely the point. It’s not safe for me to be in the public eye. If we create a company that makes millions, that becomes a figure in the technology world, that puts me in a very dangerous position.”

“Harold…”

“The government does not look favorably on what they consider to be treason and sedition, no matter the years which have passed since.”

“We haven’t gotten that far yet, Harold. We barely have the lights switched on.” Nathan steps closer to Harold, tapping his knuckles on one computer monitor. “Let us have the moment, all right?”

Harold crosses his arms. “If I give you a moment you take a lifetime.”

Nathan smiles. “You sound like Arthur now.”

“Arthur often makes good points.”

“Harold.” Nathan suddenly grips Harold’s shoulder. “Why did we go to MIT? Why did we work so hard? Was it so we could find an office job?”

“This is an office, Nathan.”

“No,” Nathan continues unperturbed by Harold’s deadpan, “and why do you think I left? I left to lay a basis for this, Harold.” Nathan points at the floor with his free hand. “You and I can create a future. The way technology is advancing now, your ideas...” Nathan laughs once in a breathy way and lets go of Harold. “We can change the world!”

Harold finds himself smiling despite himself. “Change the world?”

“Technology, computer software that affects people’s lives for the better. We can do that.” Nathan points between them. “You and I. Please, give it a chance. You trusted me enough to tell me the truth about your past, your name, about ARPNET…”

Harold holds up a hand. “Okay, okay.”

“So trust me about this. I understand this, the business, the creation and you are the computer genius. We can build something amazing together.” 

Harold chews his lip for a moment, glances around the bare office space, then he looks at Nathan again. “Do you really want to call it Ingram and Wren industries?”

“Don’t like the Wren in there?”

“Don’t think industries is the best. Sounds like a factory plant.”

Nathan smiles slowly. “Well?”

“Computing or technologies. It is what we do after all.”

“And no Wren?”

Harold waves his hand in the air. “I’d rather be more…”

“Background?”

“See, you do know me,” Harold says tapping his finger on Nathan’s new blue tie.

Nathan smirks, rolls his eyes up for a moment then he smiles for real and looks at Harold again. “IFT.”

Harold raises his eyebrows. “F?”

“You said you also used Finch.” Harold stiffens and Nathan smiles in a warm way, his voice quieting. “And then it is still you and I?”

“I…” Harold swallows once and cannot think what to say.

“Please, Harold,” Nathan presses. “We can do amazing things together. Don’t you want to change the world?”

Harold smiles slowly. “Yes.”

Nathan takes a few steps back from Harold and holds out his hands again. “Welcome to IFT, Harold. We should get started.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben hikes through the jungle in the late afternoon, the cool of evening starting to approach but still just as humid. He put a false work record in for the radio tower and stowed his van on a hill far from any Dharma supply routes. He walks steadily through the jungle, feet stepping with precision the way Tom showed him to make the least sound possible. He is getting pretty good at not leaving a trail.

“Like Jean…” Ben whispers to himself.

Ben keeps walking, breathes slowly and focuses on each branch, each leaf in his way. He has never been more patient.

Ben arrives at The Tempest station just as the sun is starting to set. He sees one van parked at the front of the station. Those on staff have not left yet. It is an added challenge but should provide Ben with more information. He follows the tree line around to the rear of the station. He waits to make sure no one else is in this area. When Ben sees no people, he shifts his gun around to the back of his pants. (If he is caught and anyone asks, just saying ‘The Hostiles’ will be explanation enough). Ben stands straight, walks across the grass until he stops at the access panel for the back door. He inputs the security code and stands still as the door opens. He steps through, tense, watching, but there is no one in the hall, no one near.

Ben rushes down the hall as quickly and quietly as he can. The less time he is in this station where he has no reason to be the better. He keeps his back to the wall, stays low to avoid as many inner windows as possible. The rooms are dark and locked as Ben tries one door handle. He keeps moving. Ben does not know the layout of this station, it is not available in any of the manuals, and has to move on instinct.

‘Because you have something to hide,’ Ben thinks as he round a corner.

He comes to a steep staircase that is more like a ladder. He steps back a few paces so he can see what is on the upper landing, just a railing to the floor below. He sees writing on one door, the word ‘warning’ clearly visible. It reads like an invitation.

Ben quietly climbs the stairs, checking behind himself as he goes, until he reaches the upper level and stops at the door. 

WARNING: CHEMICAL LAB  
PROTECTIVE SUITS REQUIRED

Ben stares at the words. He glances to the left and right. There is a closet a few feet away with glass doors. Ben can see white lab suits and oxygen masks inside. If he puts one on he will have less mobility and less visibility; he will be far more easily seen. If he does not put on a suit he will be exposed to whatever chemicals must be inside. Then again the ‘warning’ could just be a precaution? 

Ben remembers something Charles said once, ‘we all play our part.’

“And we all make sacrifices,” Ben whispers.

Ben opens the door. It makes a clicking noise louder than Ben would prefer. He slips inside quickly and pulls it shut tightly behind him. He crouches down, back against the wall and stares out from a catwalk. Below him he can see a laboratory just as the door described; there are a couple tables with computers as well as more with stereotypical lab equipment, beakers and glass and microscopes. He sees a number of industrial size vats and monitors displaying chemical formulas. 

Three people are working below, one sitting at a computer and two others having a conversation which Ben can hear pieces of over a clip board.

“…combine the Triethyl phosphite to…” the first person flips the clipboard around.

The second person nods, says something unintelligible. “…make a gas form of the diethyl methylphos… should…”

“…will create a nerve gas, yes,” the first person says with more emphasis. “We have… but can we direct at a specific area and…”

“Them and not us…. If we…”

Ben does not need to hear every word to understand what they are saying. Dharma is creating a weapon, a gas, to wipe out his people. Ben’s jaw clenches and he wants to burn the station down right now, wants to see the three people below him screaming in pain. Ben looks left and right from where he is crouched. Then his eyes lock in on a clipboard hanging on the wall next to a computer monitor. He creeps carefully to the left and stands up slowly, eyes fixed on the people below; none of them look up. Ben picks up the clipboard, sees some of the chemical names the technicians below were talking about. He does not understand everything on the page but it appears to be some sort of progress report. Ben slowly pulls the top page off then hangs the clipboard back into its position.

Then he catches another strand of conversation. “…and the upstairs tracking monitor on the toxicity level…”

Ben turns, slides to the left and grips the door handle in one fluid motion. He opens the door, steps out and closes the door again with that same echoing click. He folds the paper and shoves it into the top of his uniform as he rushes down the ladder stairs again. He walks like he is running until he reaches the outer rear door again, no crouching under inner windows this time. He stops for a moment as he reaches the door and looks back. No one is behind him, no one pursued him, no alarms of any kind are blaring or blinking or giving a hint of anything amiss. 

Ben smiles slowly and opens the door letting him out back toward the jungle. He has to tell Charles, Richard, all of them, Dharma is planning to kill them.

––––––––––––––––

Harold pages through files in the FBI database. (It took him twenty minutes to hack it this time; they clearly have improved their security recently). He reads a file on an ARPNET incursion from more than five years ago.

Interview subject: Emily Linus  
09-05-1981

[Interviewer – Agent 4815]: Can you tell us about your son?

[Subject does not respond]

[Interviewer – Agent 4815]: Mrs. Linus, your son? Your son Harold?

[Linus]: Harold? I knew a Harold… nice boy… oh my son! Yes, very smart.

[Interviewer – Agent 4815]: Where is your son, Mrs. Linus? We need to speak with him.

[Linus]: He broke his arm once, fell from a tree. Took apart the car once too. Roger was…

[Interviewer – Agent 4815]: Mrs. Linus, we need to know about your son. There are serious charges against him. Please focus.

[Subject does not respond]

[Interviewer – Agent 4815]: Mrs. Linus, please, can you tell us where your son is?

[Linus]: My son? Which one?

Harold shuts his eyes, breathes out, then opens them again and stares at the word ‘Linus.’ 

“Mom…” he whispers without meaning to.

His fingers spring to life. He codes quickly to allow himself administrative access then deletes the entire transcript.

“Gone.”

Harold grits his teeth, shakes his head once and starts covering his tracks in the FBI database before he finally closes down. Harold leans back in chair and squeezes his hands around the arms of the chair. His last name is not Linus anymore; he removed or altered all records of the Linus family in Oregon, changed his mother’s death certificate in Iowa back to her maiden name. Harold Wren still graduated from MIT, however; Harold Wren still has a file in the MIT records with an Iowa home address.

“Harold.”

Harold looks up at Nathan stepping into his office doorway.

“Nathan.”

“We now officially have five employees.”

Harold sits up in his chair. “You have five employees I believe is what you mean.”

Nathan sighs. “Harold, this silent partner thing does not mean you aren’t a partner. Silence is golden not black.”

“Meaning I get the gold too?”

Nathan chuckles. “See, you even remember how to make a joke. I taught you something when I was at MIT.”

“And MIT is not the only place I was taught.”

“Harold…”

“The more employees we have, the greater risk –”

“Part of creating IFT was to make it grow, Harold,” Nathan interrupts, “and it is. We have five other – we have employees, Harold! I want you to be happy with me that we are making progress. Did you see the profits from last quarter?”

“I did.”

Nathan grins and leans a shoulder against the door jam. “Well?”

Harold blows out a breath and looks back at his computer screen. “I just worry it’s…” He looks back at Nathan. “Do you remember what I said about the public eye when we started?”

“If you’re talking about the write up we got in –”

“Exactly, Nathan, I cannot afford that.”

“You are getting more paranoid as you age, Harold. Can’t wait until thirty to start acting like you’re fifty?”

“I’m not joking, Nathan.”

Nathan stands up straight. “Your name – any form of it – was not in the article, the few staff we have never see you in your office up here, and you’re a silent partner. That seems pretty safe to me. Don’t you want to be here; don’t you want to work together?”

Harold huffs and touches a hand to glasses. “Yes, of course I do.”

“Well then, what more do you want?”

Harold looks away and does not respond.

Three days later Harold sits in a chair with a black portfolio in his hand. He watches the closed office door beside him. He drums his hands over the thin portfolio and checks his watch once. Then the door opens and a woman walks out. She glances to the left then turns to the right and sees Harold.

“Harold Wren?”

Harold stands up and holds out his hand. “Yes, hello.”

She smiles with a brief toss of her black hair behind her shoulder. “Sophia Xu, welcome to Universal Heritage Insurance, ready for your interview?”

Harold puts on a nervous but composed face and adds a breathy laugh for effect. “As I’ll ever be.”

She smiles again. “Then let’s get to it.”

––––––––––––––––

It is an overcast Wednesday afternoon, humid and dim and looking like the rain will fall in the next ten minutes, that Ben meets the smoke monster for the first time.

Ben is returning to Dharma after a brief meeting with Charles and Isabel – Ben was formally introduced to their group's sheriff only recently – about an assignment to attempt to recruit others from within Dharma to join them. While Ben is skeptical of the idea, he understands the need to grow their numbers; humans do not live forever and the island must always remain protected. Ben can see one of the towering pylons through a small gap in the trees up the hill.

Ben sighs. “Back to the cage.”

Then he hears a noise he has not heard before. It is not a jungle noise, not the sound of trees or insects. It is not footsteps or even something more obscure like an escaped polar bear or one of strange hybrids Ben has witnessed at The Hydra. No, this sounds like clanking, like machinery; then like a moan, like a mournful siren from high up and far away. 

Ben frowns and whirls around, looks left and right. Maybe they are creating more at The Hydra or The Tempest than Ben has seen. Yet he knows – he cannot tell how – that this sound is not from Dharma, is nothing man made at all. This is the island.

Ben turns around again and abruptly falls to the ground at the sight of a huge mass of black smoke right in front of him. 

For five seconds Ben whole hearted believes he is about to die. 

‘Where are you Harold? You should be here. We are going to die together.’

Then the black smoke does nothing. The sound of clacking rises and falls in front of him, clearly coming from the smoke, the moaning a current underneath. Ben gasps hard and fists his hands into the dirt under his hands. He wonders if he should run away, make for the pylons and hope they keep the smoke out. Yet, if the black smoke was going to hurt him wouldn’t it have done so by now? 

“What…” Ben feels insane trying to talk to it but this is the island after all and the smoke is clearly not coming from a fire of any kind, is clearly something other than smoke itself. “What do you… what do you want?”

The smoke moves close and Ben jerks in fear but stays lows against the ground. It feels like the smoke is looking at him and Ben wonders if he hasn’t actually seen the smoke before.

The smoke backs up suddenly and Ben slowly gets to his feet. 

“What do you want?” he asks again.

The noise from the smoke changes, more moans and Ben feels like the smoke is asking him the same question back; what do you want? He blinks and shakes his head. The smoke seems to ask, what do you want – responsibility, position, power? 

Ben whispers, “yes,” and does not know why.

What else do you want?

Ben stares into the smoke, the blackness, the fear and lightening inside, something dark and deep and hidden inside the core of the island. 

What else?

What do you want, if you could have just one thing? Would it be recognition? Would it be those who oppose you crushed? Would it be a second chance? Would it be a seat on the throne? Would it be…

“Harold…” Ben whispers. 

The smoke screams high like a siren then sucks backward and away so fast Ben cannot track where exactly it goes.

Ben wants it all, the power, the place for himself where he is part of a whole and has a purpose, where is not the little man but the man in charge, the man others ask for help, the one who leads and protects and always knows what to do, the man who has the power.

But he also wants his brother back. More than anything – more than an escape from Dharma into the island’s embrace – he wants his brother back.

––––––––––––––––

It is an overcast Wednesday afternoon, humid and loud and the smell of the city no better for it, that Harold and Nathan meet Olivia for the first time.

Harold and Nathan sit in the back of a new restaurant far enough away from wall street and the business district that Harold feels comfortable but close enough that a cab will not take them half an hour to get back to the office. The price range is higher and, with the way their company is growing, this might end up being their type of restaurant for the rest of their lives.

“It is twenty-five dollars for a sandwich here.”

“Well, it is New York, Harold.”

Harold flips the menu around. “It’s a sandwich.”

Nathan laughs in his chest and smiles. “Tell me you can’t afford it.”

“Just because we are making money now, Nathan, does not mean we need to spend it just as quickly.”

Nathan only makes a face and takes a sip of his whiskey neat. Harold’s eyes tick to the glass but he does not say, ‘it’s noon,’ like he wants to. Clearly Nathan thinks cocktails at lunch need to be part of the corporate life; though if one looks around the restaurant one can see that Nathan is not alone in this idea.

Just as Harold is thinking disparaging things about the decline of the American work ethic, a woman in a tan suit and gray heels suddenly trips as she walks by and spills her white wine all over Nathan’s chest. She makes a yelping noise as she falls, Nathan gasps in surprise and the woman catches herself just before her knees hit the floor with one hand on their table and the other hand tight in Nathan’s.

“Are you all right?” Harold and Nathan ask at the same time.

The woman groans as she stands, nodding and pushing her long hair back away from her face. “Yes, I…” She groans again and readjusts her skirt and jacket. “Damn… yes, sorry, yes I am.” She looks down at her shoes, one heel snapped off, and the wine on the floor. “Crap.”

“Your shoes seem to have betrayed you,” Nathan quips as he picks up his napkin and wipes a bit of wine off his face.

“Heels are the devil after all,” she says and keeps looking at her shoes, clearly contemplating whether to walk or take them both off. “Ask any woman.” Then she finally looks at the two of them and sees the wet stain on Nathan’s white shirt. She gasps. “Oh God!”

“It’s all right,” Nathan cuts her off.

“Your shirt.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“Fine is not covered in wine.”

Nathan laughs once. “At least it’s white wine.”

“Hardly the point.”

“But helpful.”

She and Nathan laugh at the same time and smile at each other.

Harold resists the urge to roll his eyes. How exactly Nathan manages to do this with every woman he meets or happens to be spilled upon Harold will never fully understand.

“I’m Olivia.” She holds out her hand to Nathan.

He smiles, stands up and shakes her hand. “Nathan Ingram.” He gestures to Harold. “My colleague Harold.”

Olivia turns to Harold and holds out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.” Harold smiles in a tight line and shakes her hand. “Sorry to pour wine on your friend.”

“It’s not his first time,” Harold says dryly.

Olivia and Nathan both laugh. She looks back at Nathan and raises her eyebrows. “Second time?”

Nathan flashes his smile again. “I have a sordid past. If you have a few drinks with me sometime you could hear all about it.”

“I’d love to.”

Nathan’s expression changes just enough that Harold registers it as surprise. Nathan was not purposefully asking her out. Harold purses his lips and glances at Olivia again.

She smiles. “Surprise.”

Nathan laughs, a touch awkward, but keeps his usual charming smile in place so only someone like Harold would know he is suddenly off balance. Nathan reaches over onto their table and pulls out the napkin from under his water glass, only a touch damp. He pulls a felt tip pen out of an inner pocket of his jacket and writes on it. Then he hands the napkin to Olivia.

“Give me a call and we can get you a whole new glass of wine to spill on me together.”

She grins and takes the napkin. “Perfect.” She folds the napkin in half and slides it into the pocket of her suit jacket. “Now, alas, I must hobble back to my lunch table.”

Nathan inclines his head slightly and holds out his arm toward the rest of the restaurant. “Good luck, Olivia.”

She walks past him with a smile and Nathan slides back into his chair across from Harold. Still smiling, he looks up at Harold and raises his eyebrows.

“You make dates after meeting a woman for five minutes.”

“Oh, Harold, it was definitely less than that.” Harold sighs. “And she spilled her wine on me. Seemed only polite.”

“I sometimes wonder how we even became friends.”

Nathan laughs again and just shakes his head. “Relax, Harold. Who knows, that might be the woman I am going to marry.”

“You? Marry? Perish the thought.”

“Isn’t that what everyone wants, someone to spend their life with?” Harold makes a derisive noise and picks up his water glass. “Seriously, Harold,” Nathan picks up his whiskey as he takes Harold’s napkin to dab at the wet spot on his shirt again. “Wouldn’t you want to find someone? Who would you want to spend your whole life with?”

Harold takes a quick gulp of his water to squash the sudden sharp pain in his gut and does not say what he thinks, ‘only Ben.’

––––––––––––––––

Ben watches himself grow older, his life on the island two sided and hard but the only one that seems to come readily to mind any more as if he never had a life before. Despite that he thinks, I miss you Harold, why aren’t you here for all of this – connection and mystery and hope to come on the horizon? We were supposed to spend our whole lives together. 

––––––––––––––––

Harold watches himself grow older, New York City constantly flowing, active but fantastic and a place he never knew he wanted. Yet he thinks, I miss you Ben, why aren’t you here for all of this – inspiration and innovation and the growth of something all his own? We were supposed to spend our whole lives together.

––––––––––––––––

As Ben walks through the Dharma barracks, clipboard under his arm, he sees Horace’s son Ethan sitting out on the porch of their house. Ethan must be nearing ten now and his expression reminds Ben of one he has seen in the mirror.

“Ethan?”

Ethan looks up at Ben as he stops a few paces away. He frowns and says nothing. Ben and Ethan have never spoken before. Ben can hear voices inside the house, one unmistakably Horace’s.

“The time limit is coming…”

“We cannot… it is not theirs to control…”

“Dr. Chang, we…”

“Are you all right, Ethan?” Ben asks. He knows it is too direct, knows Ethan will lie or say nothing at all.

Ethan only shrugs and still does not meet Ben’s eye.

“Is that Dr. Chang speaking with your father inside?”

Ethan makes a scoffing noise. “Who cares?”

“We agreed to fifteen years with them, we –”

“I told you –”

The voices grow louder then cut down to whispers just as quickly. Ethan’s frown deepens.

Ben smiles and takes two steps closer. “Doesn’t sound too good, does it?”

Ethan’s head jerks around and he finally looks at Ben. “He always has someone to argue with, why should I care?”

Ben tilts his head to the side. “Your father is an important man, Ethan.”

Ethan looks away again. “I guess.”

“But that does not mean he is always right.”

Ethan’s eyes tick toward Ben again in surprise. He says nothing but his body is alert and he does not look away from Ben’s eyes.

“What Dhar… what your father and Dr. Chang think about the island, what they want…” Ben shrugs his shoulders just slightly. “It might not be what is best for the island.”

“What is best?” Ethan repeats.

Ben nods. “This island is special.”

“Yes,” Ethan says, “I know,” and his voice is strong and sure just like Ben feels every day.

“And so are you, Ethan.”

Ethan sits up straighter, face eager and open. “I am?”

“This island is special, Ethan, important.”

“Okay,” Ethan says, not understanding. 

“And you, you Ethan, were born here.”

“I… I was?” He nods slowly. “I was.”

Ben nods again. “And that means you belong here more than them.”

Ethan opens his mouth and Ben knows Ethan wants to say ‘them?’ Wants to ask what Ben really means. Instead he says, “Yes, I belong here.”

Ben smiles. “Of course you do. But when Dharma leaves –”

“I can’t leave!” Ethan says suddenly then stops himself, surprised at his own outburst.

Ben could not have laid the seeds better. Ben only smiles again at Ethan. “No, Ethan, you certainly should not leave.”

Ethan stares at Ben. Then suddenly Ethan’s mother calls from behind Ben and the feeling breaks. Ethan’s face falls back into neutral as he stands up from the porch. He glances at Ben once more then runs away toward his mother’s voice behind Ben. Ben stares at the empty porch for a moment then looks back over his shoulder at the pair as they walk away across the grass.

As Ben turns back to the house he hears Horace and Chang speaking again.

“….refuse to let this… we cannot give in to…”

“Doctor, I’ve said before I agree but…”

Ben walks past the house slowly, moving in a diagonal line which takes him closer to the house. He glances in the window and sees Horace and Dr. Chang standing in the living room, Chang waving an arm at Horace.

Then Ben hears Horace say, “we may have to use the gas.”

Ben clenches his jaw and walks on. Horace’s words are all the confirmation Ben needs of Dharma’s plans. He walks quickly once he passes the Goodspeed house until he reaches his own house. Ben bangs through the door intending to make a quick trip out into the jungle before he has to do his afternoon supply run. Then he sees his father sprawled half on the couch and half on the floor. 

Ben sighs then steps over and crouches low over his father. “Dad?”

His face twitches but he does not open his eyes. Ben gently nudges his father’s shoulder. “Dad?”

His father’s eyes suddenly shoot open and he grabs Ben’s collar like he expects an attack. Ben does not move and waits for his father’s eyes to focus. His father breathes in and out quickly and blinks his eyes a few times. Then his fist unclenches from Ben’s collar and he pulls himself up fully onto the couch, rubbing a hand over the sparse hair on his head – finally cut short when Roger could no longer deny the balding.

“It’s just you.”

“It’s just me,” Ben replies.

His father huffs. “Why’d you wake me up?”

“I believe you still have a job to do for the day, don’t you?” His father scoffs and kicks an empty beer can with one foot. “Isn’t one o’clock a bit early for you?”

“Mind your own business, Ben!” His father snaps. 

He heaves himself up off the couch, stumbling into Ben then yanking himself away again when Ben tries to steady his arm. Ben’s father walks over to the table, picks up a can of beer but it is empty.

He grumbles, throws it aside then stares at Ben again. “With nothing to look forward to but another silent dinner with you,” his father spits out the word ‘you,’ “why not start early today?”

His father falls back onto the couch and closes his eyes. “Now leave me the hell alone.”

Ben decides right then as he stares as his father stretched out on the couch, full of self-pity and loathing, and not a trace of familial emotion, Ben is going to kill him. 

––––––––––––––––

“You know how to tie a bow tie, Nathan.”

“It’s hard when you have to do it on yourself.”

Harold scoffs. “Because you’ve never done it before.”

“Shh,” Olivia says, “he’s just trying to make me stand close to him.”

Nathan grins and Harold raises his eyebrows as Olivia finishes tying Nathan’s bow tie. She tugs the ends once then taps the knot in the middle. She glances at Harold, winks then looks at Nathan again.

“There, perfectly tied.”

Nathan smiles back at her. “Thank you. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Harold sighs and tries to keep the agitation from his voice. “Are you ready now?”

Nathan turns around and holds out his hands in presentation as Olivia laughs once.

“Don’t worry so much, Harold,” Olivia says. “The benefit can’t start without the CEO of the company, right?” She nudges Nathan’s arm. “All in your honor.”

“In the company’s honor,” Nathan says with a quick tick of his eyes toward Harold.

“Which you started,” Olivia says as she turns away, cream colored heels clicking on the tiled floor of Nathan’s apartment. She picks up her clutch near the door and waves it back toward Nathan. “I swear, you are one of the most modest corporate types I know.”

“Not that modest.”

“Every time I try to praise you, you fall back on your company line.”

“I’m not the only one that works there.”

Olivia rolls her eyes. “Of course, Nathan.”

“If you two are done debating the worth of Nathan’s company status, might we go find a taxi and actually attend this event?”

Olivia laughs again and walks toward the door. “Don’t fret, Harold, the benefit isn’t for you, you are just another guest of the CEO like me. You have no reason to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Harold says with just a touch of petulance.

“Apprehensive then.”

“I…”

Nathan puts a hand on Harold’s lapel. “I think Olivia is trying to tell you to relax.”

Harold bites his teeth together and does not reply as the three of them walk out the door. They ride the elevator down to the street in silence, Harold touching his own bowtie three times to reassure himself it is straight. Olivia glances at him across Nathan and raises her eyebrows. Harold cannot help but smile a little. 

Out on the street, Olivia hails a cab. “They’ll like the little black dress more than the three piece suit.” And in less than a minute they are in the taxi squished together in the back.

“You do realize we could have hired a town car for the night,” Harold says, “with the money you make now?”

“Ah yes, the money _I_ make.”

Harold glares at Nathan though Olivia does not seem to notice Nathan’s emphasis.

“Harold has a point, Nathan.” Olivia waves a hand around the back seat. “Not that the accommodations aren’t cozy and all.” Nathan laughs. “But with the upswing that your company is taking you’ll probably be hiring limos in a few years. Might as well start getting used to it.”

“Technology certainly is popular, right Harold?” Nathan says, another cheeky smile on his face.

“I wouldn’t know,” Harold says in a deadpan. “I’m not good with computers.”

Olivia laughs once, oblivious to the second layer of conversation. “We’re all going to have to get better at the rate they are improving. Might have to get an HP for myself.”

“As long as you look into our software.”

“Of course, Nathan. Have any software to turn juries my way?”

Nathan laughs. “We’ll work on it.” Nathan glances over Olivia at Harold. “Harold might even have some ideas.”

Harold grits his teeth and glares at Nathan.

“Oh right?” Olivia says, looking at Harold again so he smiles quickly. “Insurance scheme could help maybe?”

“Not something I’d endorse,” Harold replies. This banter is starting to make Harold wonder why he caved to Nathan’s insistence that he attend the benefit.

Once the taxi stops in front of the venue, the three of them clamber out and Nathan pays the cab driver. He hands his invitations – not that Nathan would exactly need them – to Olivia as she climbs the steps. Harold starts to walk after her then Nathan’s hand on his arm stops him.

“Harold.” Harold glances back at Nathan. “This…” Nathan glances up at the lit building with IFT plastered across a banner in the front along with short quotes about their technological and computer software advances. “This is for both of us.”

“It is our company, Nathan,” Harold says with a frown, not sure why Nathan has such a somber look on his face.

“But, _both_ of us, Harold, not just me.”

“It is for the company, for what we are building.”

“You know what I mean, Harold,” Nathan insists. “When we go in there it is going to be all about me; my innovations and ideas and the surge of the company profile. You aren’t…” Nathan sighs. 

“I wanted to be in the background, Nathan. That’s why I’m the _silent_ partner, remember?”

“But that’s why I wanted you to come!”

Harold steps down one stair and cocks his head at Nathan. “Nathan, what is wrong?”

Nathan sighs again and finally lets go of Harold’s arm. “I just want this to be about both of us.”

Harold tilts his head. “What this is about is not in there, Nathan.” Harold points up the stairs at the building. “And whether they know about the computer I sit at next to you or which part of our software is mine or yours does not matter. What matters is what we create, isn’t it?”

“Are you two coming?” Olivia calls from behind Harold.

Nathan stares at Harold for a moment longer then looks over Harold’s shoulder with a grin. “Coming.” He looks back at Harold. “All right. Let’s go have me smile and preen.”

Harold smiles back at him. “That’s the spirit.”

––––––––––––––––

When the phone rings on Harold’s desk at IFT after nine PM he expects it to be Nathan.

“Yes?”

“Harold.”

“Ben!” Harold smiles with an instant rush of joy. “Hello.” He makes a half confused face through the smile. “You’re calling me on a land line.”

Ben laughs once and twists the cord of the harbor master’s phone between his fingers instantly happy at Harold’s voice. “Surprise. I saw the recent news article about your friend Nathan, the new –”

“Financial protection software, yes, that does smack of me.”

“And then a phone number registered to an empty office.”

“I thought I was the hacker?”

“Your company does, in fact, have a directory. Odd that it should include an extension with no name.”

They both laugh this time.

“No doubt Nathan’s doing.” Harold rubs a hand across his desk as if in doing so he could touch Ben. “How are you? Where are you, not the island?”

“San Francisco for a Dharma new recruit pick up. I volunteered to assist.” 

“Of course.” Harold tilts his head. 

“Easier to call you.”

Harold purses his lips. “And is that the only reason?”

Ben cocks his head. “What more would you rather I want on the mainland, Harold?”

“I don’t know… it has been a while since we spoke.” Harold bites his lip. “Your island…”

“It was our island once, Harold, as you remember.”

Harold huffs. “But it has a hold on you, not me.”

“Of course,” Ben says, his tone shifting. “Like you on land, doing well, technology company, money rolling in, you’re a regular business mogul, Harold.”

Harold frowns. “I’m doing what I wanted to do, Ben.”

“All the computer programs the world might ever need, of course.” Ben frowns exactly like Harold. “All alone from your office.”

“We both chose paths for ourselves. Don’t be angry with me because I am successful in what I wanted.”

Ben stares out at the water, one Dharma recruiter helping a woman toward the sub. “Our paths should have been together.”

“I know.”

“And maybe they still will be.”

Harold sighs and closes the program he had been coding on his computer. “I feel as if we have this argument every time we talk.”

Ben opens his mouth to protest then chuckles instead. “I think we do.”

“Maybe that means we should stop?”

“Or maybe it shows how much we care.”

“I always care about you, Ben,” Harold says quietly.

“And I you.” Ben bites his lip then smiles just as Harold does a country apart. “And you know, we are adults now; We do not need to go years without speaking to each other.”

“Tell your island that,” Harold says darkly.

“Didn't you say something about 'don't be angry with me?'“ Ben replies with the same tone.

Harold rubs his fingers over his eyes under his glasses. “You’re right, you’re right.” He pulls his hand back down. “I just miss you.”

Ben looks down at the wood floor, thinks about only his father waiting at home and the growing Dharma threat. “I miss you too.”

“Are you all right?” Harold asks.

“I’d be better if you were here,” Ben says looking up again out the window.

“Ben, what is it?” Harold watches his doorway as if Ben might walk through it. “Please, you know I can tell.”

Ben makes a noise almost like a gasp. “I know. Things are… things are changing on the island. It’s becoming more... tense.”

Harold’s jaw clenches. “What is happening, Ben?”

“I’ll know soon.”

“Is it… dangerous?” Harold asks.

Ben smiles, watches the Dharma staff organizing recruit luggage and says nothing back.

“Remember you can’t die without me,” Harold says trying to make it a joke but it sounds more like a plea.

“No.” Ben nods even if Harold cannot see. “Of course not.” He looks away from the window and the harbor. “I’m never alone. I… I still feel you with me all the time.”

“So do I, Ben, but something has to change.” Harold sighs and wants to rub his eyes again. “Is this just going to be the rest of our lives… apart?”

Harold holds up his hand for a moment to touch Ben and Ben pulls his hand down to his side from where he reached back.

“No, Harold, it won’t be. Things will change and soon.”

“Soon?”

“They have to.”

For a minute they are silent.

“Ben?”

“Yes, Harold?”

“Don’t hang up yet.”

“No.”

“You have time.”

“Yes.”

They smile together and both touch the phone receiver like it is actually the other there in their hands.

“I want to know everything about your life, Harold.”

“Every detail since we last spoke.”

They laugh again, the same tone.

They talk for an hour – Harold as silent partner, his ideas, Nathan and his amorous companion; Ben’s frustrations, the loss of Jean and Cassie and the beauty of the jungle. Mom lost and dad far gone. I miss you, I miss you – until Ben must return to the sub back to the island.

They do not talk about Harold’s growing paranoia or the FBI. They do not talk about Ben’s spying or poison gas.

“It will change.”

“Soon.”

“You should see New York City, Ben.”

“And you should learn the island’s secrets, Harold.”

When they say goodbye for once they do not feel loss or unsurmountable separation but happiness and hope.

––––––––––––––––

Ben stands at the edge, just in the shadows, of the pool of light coming from a campfire. Tom stands to Ben’s left and Pryce to his right. He can tell Pryce wants to move, wants to act, his fists keep tightening under his arms. On the other side of Pryce, Isabel discretely puts a hand on his arm and he relaxes. Within the light a man – his name is Matthew – with his hands bound sits on the ground. On the other side of the campfire within the light stands Charles, his face half in shadow as he speaks.

“If you answer my questions quickly and without lying,” Charles spits out the word, “then perhaps we will let you return to your barracks.”

The man looks around him, his eyes clearly trying to see past the available light to the shadowy figures beyond. He does not respond to Charles.

“Do you understand?”

Matthew jerks his head back around toward Charles. “Who are you?”

“You know I am.”

“I know you’re a hostile.” Charles chuckles as Matthew keeps talking. “But who are you? Why are you here? How… how are you here?”

Charles paces near the edge of the circle, hands behind his back. “I am here because I am meant to be, why you are here is a far more discouraging question.”

“We are here to advance the bounds of science, to change the world.”

Charles laughs again, the sound derisive and dangerous. “No, boy, why you are within this circle right now,” Charles stops walking, “that is the question you should have on your mind.” He finally turns his head to look at Matthew so the man can see his face. “Now, I have some questions for you.”

Matthew’s breathing stops for three seconds then he gasps hard. “I won’t tell you anything.”

“Then you will die.”

Matthew gasps again. He swallows, looks around the circle still trying to see the people within the shadows. “Help me,” he says quietly.

A few people chuckle at his plaintive words. Ben sees Pryce smile wide in a particularly vindictive way.

“They are not here to help you, Matthew. You see it was not long ago that a few of our number were murdered by your kind.”

“Our kind?”

“People all of us knew,” Charles continues, “people we loved.” Charles’ eyes coast in the direction of Pryce and Ben can almost feel the anger rising beside him. “We have no intention of losing any more on our side.”

“You… you can’t…”

“So it must be your side which gives up their claim here. It is you who must leave or…”

“You have no right!” Matthew snaps, struggling against the ropes around his hands, his voice suddenly bold. “What gives you the right?”

“I have every right!” Charles snaps as he whips around the fire and suddenly crouches low in front of Matthew. “Enough chat.” He grips the collar of Matthew’s uniform. “Tell me about The Tempest.”

“The Tempest…”

“Yes.”

Matthew’s jaw clenches. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Charles back hands him hard. Matthew’s head snaps to the side and drops of blood splatter onto the dirt. Pryce’s hands fist again. Ben feels the corners of his mouth quirk up.

“I said no lying.”

“I don’t…”

Charles back hands him again. He stands up straight, wipes the knuckles of his one hand on his opposite sleeve and paces slowly away. “The Tempest.” He stops walking and turns back to Matthew. “You don’t need to bother denying its existence or denying you know what happens there. We know where you are stationed.”

“I… how can you…”

“We know.”

Ben smiles completely this time. Tom nudges Ben arm slightly beside him. Matthew’s eyes tick at the movement in the dark, for a moment locked on where Ben stands. Ben wants to tell him, ‘yes, it was me, I know you.’

“Tell us about The Tempest,” Charles repeats, “tell us about the gas.”

Matthew swallows hard, his arms moving more now as he struggles against the ropes. “I have nothing to say. I’m not a chemist. Nothing I could say would help you.”

“But you work there!” Charles snaps, turning to stare at Matthew. “You are there every day. You could tell us everything; the chemicals, the formula, the plans to use it. Do not play as if you have nothing to offer us!” Charles turns away again, half in the darkness, a threatening profile. “If you didn’t then what would stop us from killing you?”

Suddenly Matthew pulls a hand free of the ropes around his wrist and jumps to his feet.

“Charles!” a woman’s voice cries from the opposite side of the fire.

But Matthew is already running out of the circle into the dark, smashing into Tom as he goes nearly knocking the man over and brushing Ben’s sleeve. Ben spins in place, grips his rifle tight against his arm and runs after Matthew. His eyes do not adjust as quickly as he wants due to the fire light but Ben runs on instinct, remembers this area of the jungle by sense alone. He soon sees Matthew ahead of him in the dark, hears Pryce and Isabel behind him. Pryce fires a shot over Ben’s shoulder but does not hit Matthew. Suddenly Ben cuts to the right and around a large thick area of trees. When he comes around the other side he is in front of Matthew. Matthew skids to a stop, stares Ben right in the face with obvious recognition.

“Ben…” he gasps.

Ben shoots him.

Ben thinks as Matthew stares and falls and does not get up that killing – protecting the island – is becoming easier.

Pryce runs by Ben and kneels down next to Matthew. He checks Matthew’s pulse point then looks back at Ben. He frowns but he does not look wholly unpleased.

“Ben.” Ben turns to Isabel as she touches his arm. She looks at Pryce and Matthew’s body then back to Ben. Her lips are tight. “Charles won’t be pleased with you.”

Ben stares at her. “He wouldn’t have told us anything anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I can get what we need.” She raises an eyebrow that Ben can see despite the darkness. “You still have your man on the inside.”

“You better find out more soon,” Pryce says as he stands up. Ben and Isabel both look at him. “We don’t know how long we have until they use that gas of theirs on us.”

After a pause, Ben purses his lips. “Then we will just have to take it from them.”

––––––––––––––––

Harold sips expensive and delicious wine as Nathan walks around his kitchen. The house is new and if Harold is any judge of Nathan’s character and behavior, Nathan hopes it won’t be a ‘bachelor pad’ for long.

“I don’t usually use Cavatappi.” Nathan stirs a wooden spoon around in a red sauce that Harold fears contains too much pepper. “My mother was partial to Rotini.”

“And woe to the man who alters his mother’s cooking?”

Nathan glances at Harold and twists his lips around. “That a quote?”

“I suppose I’m just eloquent.”

Nathan laughs and picks up a spice jar of dill. “In your coding at least.”

At that Harold smiles. “You looked at my new program?”

Nathan throws some spice haphazardly into the pan and stirs it again. “You do continue to surprise me, Harold. As a basis for an operation system…”

“One to complete with DOS.”

Nathan chuckles. “They just put it out, Harold. Keep the ego in check. At least until you surpass them next month.”

Harold bristles slightly but he is smiling behind his glass of wine.

“And the script you just set up incorporating Oberon…”

“Wirth made Pascal as well. He is quite talented.”

“Not as talented at you.”

Harold smiles again and leans back against a counter. “Is there a reason you are trying to fluff my ego today, Nathan?”

“I can’t be pleased that your innovation is moving our company higher up the technology world ladder? Microsoft or IBM would have stolen you by now if you weren’t the man in the shadows. Shouldn’t I fluff your ego to keep you happy?”

Harold only takes another sip of his wine and gives Nathan a look.

Nathan glances at the pot with the pasta then puts his spoon down near the sauce pan. “I want to propose to Olivia.”

Harold has to clench his hand hard around his glass so he does not drop it. “What?”

Nathan smiles. “Yep.”

“Propose?”

“Yes, like marriage, Harold, you recall it, I hope?”

Harold laughs in a polite way. “I’m just surprised.”

“What, don’t think I’m the marrying kind?”

Harold is about to say ‘no’ then stops himself. Nathan has always been a charmer, fond of women and had a fair number of partners and conquests since they have known each other. However, Nathan has also always been the traditional man; college, a job, make some money, lay the foundations for a 'normal' life. Of course he would move onto the next traditional step of marriage.

Harold tilts his head. “I suppose you are.”

Nathan grins. “I have the ring, dinner plans.”

“Classic.”

“It’s her favorite restaurant.”

Harold shrugs slightly. “You're not worried about being in public? What if she says no?”

Nathan chuckles and touches a fingertip to the wooden spoon. “I am fairly sure she already knows I plan to propose.”

Harold puts down his nearly finished glass of wine on the counter. “She would.”

“But I wanted to ask you first.”

Harold raises his eyebrows. “Ask me if I think you should propose?”

Nathan scoffs in a not unkind way. “No, Harold, I think I know if I want to get married or not without your sage advice.”

Harold sighs. “Ask me what then?”

“Will you be my best man?”

Harold’s stomach drops. “I…”

“It won’t be a large wedding and I won’t require you to make a speech.”

Harold feels a bit like he cannot breathe. “Nathan…”

“I know you prefer your solitude most of the time, Harold, but I am your best friend.” Nathan picks up his sauce spoon and taps it on the edge of the sauce pan. “I think I have the right to ask something more of you now and then.”

“I suppose you do.”

“So?” Nathan stirs the sauce once, looks down at it as if he is really paying attention to the circles his makes. He looks up again. “Will you stand up with me, Harold, while I let Olivia make an honest man out of me?”

Harold swallows once and clicks his tongue. “You wanted to ask me first to be your best man?”

Nathan grins. “I thought you would be the harder one to convince.”

Harold smiles in a tight line. “You’re not wrong.”

“But I also know you’ll be hard pressed to think of any good reason to say ‘no’ to me, Harold.”

Harold looks away. “Why would I say no, Nathan?”

Nathan stops stirring the sauce, taps the spoon on the edge of the pan again then points the spoon at Harold. “Exactly. Why would you?” He puts the spoon down then crosses his arms and points one finger from the crook of his arm. “Or maybe I was worried about that look you’re giving me.”

Harold lets his expression melt into a smile even though he knows exactly what Nathan is talking about. “What look?”

Nathan’s lip quirks up just a bit but he does not elaborate; he does not need to. “So?”

Harold keeps smiling even though inside he feels exhausted, like he wants to lie down and stare at the ceiling watching binary code behind his eyes where the world is quiet and simple and not full of past wrongs or secrets or empty holes. 

It is not that Harold does not want to support Nathan or is against Nathan marrying or jealous at so permanently sharing his friend; no, it is that Harold should be Ben’s best man. It should be Ben with him, Ben who has met someone and wants to make a life, Ben who is smiling and making sauce and asking, ‘will you be my best man?’ Nathan is everything Harold would want in a friend – smart and funny and respectful of Harold’s secrets – but he is not Ben. Harold does not begrudge Nathan, does not wish he was Ben, but sometimes the difference hits Harold right between the eyes like a hammer.

Harold nods once and picks up his wine. “Yes, Nathan, of course I will be your best man.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben walks through the jungle back toward the Dharma barracks. He has a Dharma rifle over one shoulder and a backpack over the other. The backpack is empty now, the stock pile of finished gas canisters from The Tempest delivered to Charles and the others.

“We strike before they can,” Charles says. “We take our island back.”

“Are you sure?” Someone asks. “Is it time?”

“Been time long enough,” Pryce says.

“But is now the time?” Isabel asks.

“Yes,” Charles gives her a look Ben can practically feel. “It is.”

“Jacob said yes,” Richard adds and silences all.

Ben runs his hands over tree trunks as he walks out of the foliage onto the road. He can see recent tire tracks and knows the last shipment of the day has finished visiting the stations. How long before they notice the missing canisters from their storage? How long before they respond? Ben smiles. They will not have time. Ben runs his fingers over leaves as he walks, most moist with humidity. He sees the pylons as he walks closer and closer. He sees Charles in his memory inside his tent arguing with Isabel.

“But is it right?” Isabel crosses her arms. “All of them?”

“They would have done the same to us.”

“We don’t know that,” a man says where Ben cannot see from where he peers into the tent, waiting outside.

“Of course they would!” a woman with her dark hair pulled into a tight bun – Bea or Beatrice – circles around behind Charles. “The call us ‘hostiles.’ What less would they do? What less have they already done, Danny?” She turns to Isabel. “What fate would you give them if they were one of us, Isabel, after all they have done to us, have done to the island?”

Isabel’s lips tighten but Ben can tell she is convinced.

“And might I remind you all,” Charles says, “Jacob has condoned this. Jacob is the one who wants this. I think we can agree the island must be returned to whom it belongs.”

Ben kicks a rock as he walks, grips a vine until he walks too far and lets it fall back again behind him. He hikes his rifle higher onto his shoulder as he crouches low and keys in the code for the sonic fence. He steps through then crouches down again to reactivate it. As he stands, Ben slides his backpack off his shoulder and unzips it. He pulls out his clipboard of assignments, checks off a few boxes and puts in some hasty notes about deliveries and fixing an invented electrical short at the radio tower.

Ben plasters a Dharma level smile to his face and walks back along the road toward the barracks with the sounds of Charles and Richard and Beatrice in his head.

“And we have obtained enough gas masks from The Hydra,” Richard says. 

“The chemical composition is lethal,” Beatrice says quickly as she points out notes on the clip board Ben stole. “They were trying to also synthesize some sort of antiviral for themselves so they could cover the island with this and remain immune.”

Charles turns to her. “So it is guaranteed, Bea?”

They all turn and look at Ben. Ben shrugs just slightly. “I haven’t heard a thing at the barracks or whenever I have been to The Tempest. If they have an antiviral they haven’t administered it yet.”

“Perfect.” Charles nods.

“I can work with Danny and Colleen to deliver it across the island,” Beatrice says.

Ben looks up to see Horace Goodspeed walking toward him. “Ben?”

Ben smiles. “Horace.”

“Where’ve you been all day? Your dad was looking for you.”

Ben resists the scoff that is his first reaction. “About what?”

“Repairs on the dock.”

Ben nods. “I was at the radio tower.” He shrugs. “Sorry about that.”

Horace claps Ben’s shoulder. “No problem, man.” He grins. “Could probably use a few more workman around here with how old some of our equipment and buildings are getting.” He waves a hand toward the medical house. “Don’t get Amy started on our surgery.”

“Well,” Ben says with a slow smile. “It has been fifteen years here now, hasn’t it?”

“It’s been fifteen years now,” Richard says to Ben as they exit the tent and smiles that smile which is never quite whole. “They broke the truce.”

“I guess it’s hard to keep track,” Ben replies.

Richard glances into the tent at Charles speaking to Isabel then to Ben again. “It is almost over, Ben.”

Ben smiles for real. “Almost.”

Horace frowns at Ben then shrugs. “Fifteen years? I don’t know, must be.” He laughs. “Hard to keep track after being here so long.”

Ben smiles slowly. “I’m sure. Does that mean your work will be over soon?”

Horace laughs again. “Who knows Ben? We could be here another fifteen years. Don’t think the work is ever really over.” Then he turns and walks away toward the orientation building.

“Almost over,” Ben whispers to himself as he watches Horace. “Horace?” Ben suddenly calls before Horace is quite out of earshot. He turns around and raises his eyebrows in question at Ben. “For what it’s worth, thank you for giving my father the job here.”

Horace frowns in confusion but Ben turns away and says nothing more.

Back at his house, Ben eats quietly with his father; he glances at the pair of glasses which belonged to Harold kept perfectly on the dresser in Ben’s room, stares at the bird books dusty on a shelf which belonged to their mother, finds the telescope Harold made when they were eight in a closet, opens the gift box which still holds the two wooden statues from Annie and feels the memory of Harold with him every second of every day. And then he focuses and sees, finds, feels only the island.

“Soon,” Ben says to the air.

––––––––––––––––

The day Nathan – and Olivia and her mother and a very eager wedding planner – decides to have his wedding is one week before Harold and Ben’s birthday. Olivia does not know that, Nathan barely knows since Harold tries to make him forget, so the choice is ideal.

“You know how to do this, Nathan.”

Nathan smiles at Harold and shrugs, careful not to disturb Harold’s work. “I feel like it’s becoming a tradition.”

“Trading off between Olivia and I?”

“Always.”

“Or perhaps you’d just rather have someone else doing the work for you?”

Nathan chuckles. “You tie a better tie, Harold. Can I help it if I want to look my best today?”

Harold sighs but does not make any dry retort about Nathan’s flawed reasoning or conversely something sappy about Nathan wanting to keep those he cares about most close. He finishes tying the bowtie then moves backward one step so Nathan can look in the full length mirror.

“Well.” Nathan’s eyes tick to Harold. “Am I ready to get married?”

Harold raises his eyebrows. “Are you?”

Nathan looks back at the mirror, gray three piece suit with a steel blue vest and tie sporting a herringbone pattern. He tilts his head to the side, pulls on the bows of his tie self-consciously then smiles that front man smile. He looks at Harold again. “I do look a treat.”

Harold smiles genuinely. “Always, Nathan. Ready?”

“This will change everything, won’t it?” Nathan says to the wall beside Harold.

Harold waits until Nathan meets his eye again. “It might.” Nathan breathes out once and nods. “But there is no reason that is a bad thing, Nathan.”

“No?”

“Start a family to go with all that money you’ve got. You can only be the charmer so long.”

“I can always be a charmer.”

Harold smiles in an indulgent way then steps closer and touches Nathan’s arm. “Things will change but plenty will stay the same.” Nathan’s jaw clenches. “And you love Olivia.”

“I do,” Nathan says with certainty.

“So changes things. Start your life with her.”

Nathan nods again. “Always the smart one, Harold.”

“Good thing you keep me around.”

Nathan smiles again and straightens his jacket. “Always, Harold. I’m ready.”

After the ceremony – Nathan and Olivia walking down the aisle together, blue flowers to match blue bridesmaids, and Harold standing stiffly but determinedly by Nathan’s side – at dinner there are speeches by Olivia’s sister and her father. Nathan’s father says something short with business metaphors and Nathan keeps his promise that Harold need not make a speech. Harold does whisper, ‘congratulations,’ in both the bride and groom’s ears at the head table – an unavoidable concession. The wedding is bigger than Nathan predicted, closer to two hundred guests, two courses not counting salad and dessert, not to mention press loitering outside what with the big business name of Ingram involved. Harold keeps to the sidelines as much as possible.

The first dance is ‘Fly me to the Moon’ by Frank Sinatra. Nathan and Olivia waltz and twirl like they have practiced this, smiles on both their faces and eyes on no one else. It is then, during the dance, when Olivia laughs and Nathan cannot stop smiling at her that Harold is truly convinced.

“Funny Nathan would be the first, huh?”

Harold turns to Arthur as he slides up beside Harold by the far wall beyond the dance floor and the guest tables.

“Hello, Arthur.”

Arthur grins. “Nathan the first to get married.” He makes an amused noise and takes a drink of his champagne. “Hard to believe with the way he was at MIT.” 

“I guess we are all full of surprises.” Harold gives Arthur a look but Arthur does not rise to Harold’s bait.

It has been a mystery to all of them where Arthur has progressed in his career since college.

“Do you like her?” Arthur asks, changing the topic.

“It doesn’t matter if I like her.”

Arthur laughs. “That a no?” He looks at the dancing couple. “Only in it for the money?”

Harold scoffs. “Hardly. She is a lawyer.”

“Ah, so a cumbersome personality? Is Nathan henpecked? Does she revile the modern computer? Don’t like her hair?”

Harold gives Arthur a look. “She a fine woman. I never said I didn’t like her.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “But?”

“But nothing.”

“Right.” Arthur takes another drink of his champagne. “She’s just stealing your best friend.”

Harold rolls his eyes. “There is no need to jump to stereotypes, Arthur, I am very happy for both of them and I think it is a good fit for Nathan.”

“Then why do you look like you’d rather run out the back door?”

Harold presses his lips together. He watches Nathan and Olivia dancing around the floor and says nothing back to Arthur. He is not upset about Nathan and Olivia; not even ‘upset’ as the word is conventionally used. He is simply thinking about Ben instead; what would he have felt if the man dancing out on the floor had been Ben instead?

––––––––––––––––

The day Charles – and Jacob and Richard and everyone – decides to finally remove the Dharma threat is Ben and Harold’s birthday. The others do not know that, Ben’s father barely knows that, but Ben thinks it is a perfect choice.

Ben puts on Harold’s glasses that morning as he stares at himself in the mirror. They make the world a bit clearer even though Ben rarely needs his glasses anymore. The glasses are a little tight, meant for a child’s face but maybe they were also big for Harold back then. 

“For me too,” Ben whispers to Harold through the mirror.

He touches the frames, smiles and buttons the last button on his Dharma uniform before he turns away and heads out down the hall. 

Out on the grass, his father loads boxes of composition books for The Pearl. He glances at Ben as he walks over carrying two boxes marked for The Staff. His father shoves the boxes into the back of the van and then closes the back door. His father stares at Ben with a small frown on his face but says nothing. Ben almost wants to tell him what is different but decides, why be charitable?

“Is it…?”

Ben raises one eyebrow. “Is it… what?”

His father frowns and looks away again, picking up a box to shove into the back seat. Ben bites the edge of his lip and wonders if it isn’t worth it to just end this farce now. He moves to walk around to the passenger side when his father grumbles something unintelligible.

“What?” Ben says stopping at the back of the van.

“Those aren’t your glasses,” his father snaps with his hand on the door handle of the driver side. “They’re too small. Why are you wearing them?”

Ben smiles but it is cold and he oddly feels like laughing. “No, they are not mine but they work.”

His father shakes his head. “Never can get a straight answer out of you.”

“That all you have to say? Anything you forgot?” Ben says cocking his head.

His father stops halfway turning to the car. He frowns. He stares at Ben for a long moment then nods. “It’s your birthday.”

“Surprised you remembered on your own.”

“Right.” His father turns back to the car then stops and turns back. “Why don’t we go up to the Mason, drink some beers, have some, I don’t know, father and son time?”

Ben stares at him. “I’d love that.”

Up on the Mason, just another grass hill overlooking the island, they sit in the Dharma van now devoid of boxes or supplies, only a case of beer in the back seat. Ben’s father opens a can for himself first then hands one to Ben. Ben opens it and takes a sip, hardly enjoyable, the mainland equivalent of Bud Light or something equally mundane.

“Well, you sure can’t say it isn’t beautiful,” his father says.

Ben puts the can down on the dashboard. “What do you really think about what happened that night on the dock?”

His father turns to look at Ben. “What?”

Ben stares at back at him. “Do you really blame her for trying to escape you? Do you blame her for taking away one of your sons? Are you sorry you kept me back or sorry you bothered? Did you just want to blame me because I was all you got to keep?”

His father frowns, shrugs like he hasn’t thought of that night in years. “What do I know?”

Ben looks down at his watch, two minutes until four. His father glances down at Ben’s watch too then up at Ben again. He narrows his eyes and Ben sees he wants to make some sarcastic retort.

Instead he says, “I blame you because she wanted to take you with her.”

It may be the one moment in their years together alone on the island that Ben actually respects his father. He nods once. “And I blame you for taking my brother away from me.” 

His father frowns and takes another drink of his beer, glances out of the corner of his eye at Ben. 

Ben does not stop staring at him. “You may have missed her all these years because she left you but she left me too when she wanted to take me with them. And I have missed Harold, my brother, more than you could conceive of. It took a tremendous amount of patience dealing with you and bearing the loss of someone as important to me as my twin.”

Ben takes the glasses off his face, reaches down to the floor of the car and picks up his bag. He pulls a gas mask and a single gas canister out of the bag. Ben looks at his father again as his father only stares. “Nothing you could have done could have made up for the loss of my life with Harold. Goodbye, dad.”

Ben pulls the gas mask over his face then pulls the pin out of the gas canister.

When Ben walks back through the jungle, down the hill, past the inoperative sonic fence and into the Dharma barracks he feels a sense of release. He passes one Dharma van crashed on the road, passes bodies in the grass and closes Horace Goodspeed’s eyes where he is slumped on a bench. When Richard comes around the side of a building wearing no gas mask Ben pulls his off. They stare at each other for a moment then Ben smiles just a little.

“Do you want us to get his body?” Richard asks with a glance behind Ben as if they could see the hill with the van from here.

“No, leave him out there.” Richard goes to turn away but Ben takes a step forward and Richard stops. “There is one thing.”

“What?”

“I’d like to leave the island, just for a little while.” Richard gives him a strange look and Ben goes on. “There is someone I would like to see; someone I need to talk to.”

“Who?”

“My brother.”

––––––––––––––––

Harold waits on a secluded bench overlooking the river. He hasn’t been to Astoria or Oregon since the time he and Ben reunited at eighteen. The bridge looks the same, as does the water and the boats. In truth, the tense feeling of fear and excitement at seeing his brother again turns everything else around him into a pale white noise.

When Ben sees Harold sitting on the bench the white noise turns into a white hot flame.

Ben walks quickly until he is right behind the bench. “Harold.”

“Ben,” Harold says turning at Ben’s voice and standing up in one motion. 

They grab each other for a hug instantly – tight as possible, Harold’s glasses pressing against Ben’s temple and Ben’s breath hot at Harold’s ear – then they break apart again grinning at each other.

“Been awhile.”

“Long enough.”

“Since…”

“…last time.”

They smile again.

Harold glances down at Ben’s attire – khaki themed and a sort of bandanna around his neck. Then he notices the man standing a few meters away behind Ben. Harold’s eyes tick back to Ben and he raises his eyebrows.

“That’s Tom,” Ben says, glancing back without really looking. He chuckles and shrugs. “Sort of my chaperone.”

Harold frowns. “What?”

“We have some rules about leaving the island.” Ben shrugs again. “Plus, I don’t exactly know how to pilot the submarine. Tom does.”

Harold glances at Tom again over Ben’s shoulder. Tom waves a hand. Harold looks at Ben again. “He’s not Dharma.” It isn’t a question.

Ben smiles. “No.”

“Something has happened.”

Ben nods. “Something good.”

Harold raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What exactly?”

Ben presses his lips together then breathes out. “What needed to happen, what has needed to happen for a long time.”

Harold frowns. “I don’t know what that means, Ben. Has Dharma left the island?”

Ben looks at Harold and does not speak for a moment. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Dharma is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, Harold, gone.” Ben smiles in a strange way which Harold would almost call cruel. “Are we playing a repeat-after-me game?”

Harold’s face twists in a way Ben would almost call hostile. “Why are you talking to me like this?”

Ben purses his lips. “Like what?”

“You can’t lie to me, Ben.” Ben looks away for one second and Harold stops breathing until Ben looks at him again. “Just tell me,” Harold insists, “what happened?”

Ben breathes in and wants to grab Harold’s arm, pull him along all the way to the island so he can just show him, show him how much better it will be. “We did what we had to.”

“I believe that,” Harold says quietly. “But why can’t you –”

“We killed them.”

Harold blinks twice then shakes his head. He has to swallow once before he can speak. “I… I don’t…” He wants to say ‘I don’t believe you’ except that he always knows when Ben is lying.

“It had to be done,” Ben says bluntly. “Dharma developed a nerve gas. They were planning to kill us. We only turned their own plan against them.”

“Gas?”

“Yes.”

“You _gassed_ a hundred people?”

Ben clicks his teeth. “Well, I didn’t see to each one personally.”

Harold frowns deeply. “That’s not funny.”

“You don’t understand, Harold,” Ben snaps, stepping into Harold’s personal space. “You haven’t been there. You left. You have been here. You do not know the truth of Dharma, of all of them, what they have done.” He glares at Harold as if the mass grave of Dharma bodies were right behind Harold. “They should never have been on that island.”

“If Dharma never went to the island, Ben, neither would we,” Harold says quietly. “Who were you to judge who that island belonged to?”

Ben’s lips pinch together tightly. “They deserved what they got. They would have done exactly the same to us.”

“Ben, you…” Harold blows out a breath. “You helped to kill people.”

Ben shakes his head. “It was a cold war, Harold, it was going to go either way eventually. I’m just lucky it ended in our favor.”

Harold takes a step back then another making Ben’s face fall. “Harold…”

“I do not understand you.” Harold gasps and feels his hands shake. “I never thought I would say that, even all the times before when you insisted on staying on that island I could see… but now, now I…” Harold fists his hands to stop them from shaking. “I do not understand you.”

“Then listen to me so I can help you understand,” Ben pleads. “We had no choice. Dharma developed a gas to kill us, to kill 'the hostiles,' and our only option was to stop them before they could, for us and for the island.”

“But... but all of them... there had to have been...”

“Believe me, Harold, that was our only choice. Us or them.”

Harold shakes his head, puts his hands on his hips then takes them off again. He looks at Ben who stares levelly back. “Ben, come with me. Leave these people now before it gets worse.”

“Worse?” Ben waves a hand through the air. “Now it's going to get better.”

Harold steps closer again lest Tom lurking nearby should hear. “Those people are murderers, Ben!”

Ben scoffs. “Then so was Dharma.”

“What about dad?” Harold asks, shifting focus. “Did they kill him too?”

“Why should you care? After what he's done to us, to me!” Ben snaps suddenly. “Why should you care about what's happened to him?”

Harold steps back abruptly and for one moment – just one second but it’s enough – Harold is frightened of Ben. And Ben sees it plain on Harold’s face before it disappears again.

“Harold… I…”

“What’s happened to you?” Harold whispers.

“I grew up,” Ben says flatly, “what happened to you?”

“Me?”

“I’m not the only one who has changed.” Ben’s eyes tick up and down Harold’s eight hundred dollar suit. “Mr. New York City.”

“Ben, stop.”

“Locked away in your office with your coding and your computer and I wonder if you remember there is a world out here past all that?”

Harold scoffs. “For you the world is one island that no one even knows exists, so who is the real isolationist?”

Ben shakes his head. “I have my people.”

“Your people? And you say I’ve changed?” Harold snaps. “I am doing what I’ve always wanted, you know that. I am not the one helping to kill people!

“Stop!” Ben breathes in sharply. “Please.”

“No, Ben.”

Ben grabs Harold’s arms tightly and Harold tries to pull away. Then they both freeze in place at the action – both foreign and far too illuminating – and stare at each other.

“I don’t want to fight,” they say together.

“But,” Harold continues as they stare. “I think…”

Ben lets go of Harold’s arms. “You think what, Harold?”

Harold’s jaw clenches and his look turns hard. “I think we are different people.”

Ben breathes in slowly once then twice and shakes his head. “We have always been different.”

“But we’ve also been the same.”

“We still are,” Ben insists.

Harold shakes his head. “I don’t know about that now.”

“You can’t do this to me, Harold,” Ben says, trying to sound authoritative but instead sounding hollow. “You can’t abandon me again.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t.”

“How can I stay,” Harold says and his voice sounds like a gasp, “when you tell me you helped commit mass murder?”

“We – I – did what I had to do, what I _needed_ to do.” Ben holds his hands out to the side in an imploring gesture. “My life was sadness and pain without them, without the island, when I was trapped with our father and Dharma. Would you have asked me to stay that way? They are the ones who saved me.” Then Ben’s expression falls just enough. “Not you.”

Harold swallows. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “But it’s too late to go back now and fix any of that.” He pauses. “And we are different people.”

Ben’s jaw clenches and his hands ball into fists along with Harold’s as Harold bites his teeth tightly together.

“Yes,” Ben says, “I think we are.”

Ben turns on his heel and walks back toward Tom feeling as though he could cry at any moment and behind him tears fill Harold's eyes.

 

On the submarine, beneath the water on his way home again, Ben sits alone in a small room breathing hard and sharp and fast while Harold holds his head between both hands, bent over his knees in the back of the taxi cab sucking air into his lungs as deeply as he can. 

They think the same phrases over and over, ‘why, why, this can’t be happening, why… I can’t lose you.’


	7. I don't want to fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He makes me think of us when we were that small, how we were always together."_   
>  _Ben nods. "When things were simple."_   
>  _Harold's tone shifts. "Before the island."_
> 
> [Ben and Harold expand their adult lives, gain children and try to move past their differences.]

“You know, you haven't told me how your trip to the west coast was, Harold.”

Harold looks up from his half empty plate of beef bourguignon at Nathan. “Hmm?”

“Where was it again? Seattle?”

Harold puts down his fork. “Astoria.”

Nathan makes a nonplussed face then stands up from the table, picking up his plate. As he comes around the table he points at Harold's plate with a questioning look. Harold nods and Nathan picks it up, heading toward Harold's kitchen.

“I didn't realize insurance companies had conferences.” Nathan laughs once. “Or that you would bother to attend.”

“Must keep up appearances,” Harold says mildly.

“Surprised you didn't foist it off on someone else.”

Harold says nothing in response, staring at the glass of wine by his right hand. He had a sip before they ate and forgot about it through the meal as Nathan talked about earning reports and IFT stock. It is a Merlot, Italian label and red as blood.

“What does one exactly talk about at insurance conventions?” Nathan asks as he walks back into the dining room.

“Insurance,” Harold says deadpan then stands up from the table, leaving the wine behind.

They walk into the living room and sit in chairs across from each other. Nathan has a whiskey tumbler in his hand and Harold wonders, unkindly, if it has become fused to Nathan's hand; better than a can of poison gas. Harold breathes in deeply to stop himself from shuddering.

“Are you planning on telling me why you really went over there, Harold?”

Harold focuses on Nathan. Nathan turns the glass in his hand around on the edge of his chair. His face is open, questioning with that usual hint of worry for Harold. It makes him smile just a bit; this is his best friend.

“Nathan...” Harold looks away again but cannot think of a half–truth to supply.

“I know you like to keep secrets, Harold,” Nathan says, leaning forward in his chair. “And I respect that, I don’t push you.”

“Except now.”

Nathan gives him a look then continues. “But I’m also your friend and I care about you.”

Harold breathes out slowly. “I know.”

“So let me care about you. Let me help.”

“This isn’t something you can help with, Nathan.”

Nathan takes a sip of his drink and cocks his head. “How do you know until you tell me?”

Harold shakes his head – sees Ben’s face, his utter belief in wrong being right. “I know.”

Nathan clicks his teeth and puts his glass down on the table beside him. He shakes his head and rubs a hand over his mouth. He stares at Harold for a moment then drops his hand. “What is in Astoria, Harold?” 

What is in Astoria? Harold thinks. Loss and fear and half of his heart. Harold shakes his head and leans back in his chair. He sighs, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He puts them back on again and looks at Nathan. Harold shakes his head once more and finds himself able to smile just enough. “Nothing I can see again any time soon.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben lines up books on a small book shelf he retrieved from the Dharma house where he lived for the majority of his life. He had little problem leaving behind the memories of his father drunk on the couch but the books he needed, the books he once shared. He puts Robinson Caruso next to The Odyssey and it looks ironic; shipwrecked and a journey home. They feel vaguely biographical in theme to Ben.

“All moved in?”

Ben glances over his shoulder at Richard standing in the entrance to his tent.

“Almost,” Ben says mildly.

“Might be the first person to bring along a book case.”

Ben chuckles with a small amount of humor. “Hardly a case.”

Richard tilts his head. “Still.”

Ben nods and slides a bookend shaped like a Nautilus against the books on the shelf to keep them in place. He taps his fingers over the swirling shape, thinks about when he was seven or eight and sharing a bedroom that could have been the whole world.

“Your trip to the mainland was short.”

Ben turns back to Richard; half surprised the man is still here. “It didn't need to be longer.”

Richard nods. “Nor should it have been.”

Ben frowns. “Are you worried, Richard?”

“No one doubts your commitment, Ben.” Richard takes two slow steps into the tent glancing around at the sparse furnishings – canvas cot, folding desk, water basin. “You were the one who had to be a spy for so long after all.”

Ben pulls his hand away from the bookend. “But?”

Richard looks at Ben again. “Many of those here left things behind to commit themselves to the island. They were called here, brought here, but that doesn't mean they did not sacrifice.”

Ben thinks of Harold's face, the moment when he tried to pull away from Ben. “I have sacrificed.”

“But it’s not just about sacrifice.”

Ben tilts his head and keeps Richard’s eye contact. “Are you questioning my commitment, my belief now? Now that I’m not your spy on the inside, not a useful tool, am I suddenly a less desirable convert?”

Richard smiles – that smile that Ben can never really read because it says nothing. “I am not saying that.”

“Then just what are you saying, Richard?”

“I am saying these are your people here on the island and anything left on the mainland should be just a memory.”

Ben sees Harold’s face – his surprise, his confusion and that one second of fear. “I didn’t stay, Richard. I am right here where I want to be.”

“I know.” Richard nods. “I suppose my question is, have you really left everything behind?”

Ben breathes in once. What did he leave behind? Loss and resentment and half his heart. But what has he finally gained?

Ben smiles his half true smile. “I suppose I have to.”

––––––––––––––––

“So the program is a bit raw at the moment.”

“No, don’t tell me, you coded in C and it was too boring.”

Harold laughs once and picks up the box of pork lo mein off the table between them in Nathan’s office. “If we want the end user to understand –”

“Because, of course, the end user will be looking directly at your code, Harold.”

Harold points at Nathan with his chop sticks. “You jest but –”

“Yes, Harold, I am sure there will be at least one programmer who attempts to back engineer our product but why not wait for the roll out to worry about it?”

Harold rolls his eyes. “Back to the point.”

“You had one?” Nathan snatches a dumpling from the Styrofoam container and raises his eyebrows.

Harold shakes his head. “It is rough around the edges at the moment and the memory usage is not where I would like.” Harold twirls his chop sticks around in the take out box of noodles. “Don’t want to overwhelm the OS.”

“And have all our help requests be about sluggishness?” Nathan finishes.

Harold takes a bite of his lo mein. “Bull's-eye.”

Nathan cocks his head. “And is it?” Harold looks over his glasses at Nathan in question. “Sluggish?”

Harold clicks his teeth. “I might have crashed my computer in test.”

Nathan barks a laugh. “Can’t have that in financial software, might make someone’s stock crash right along with it.”

“Not even close to real world connection in the functional –”

“You know I was joking Harold,” Nathan cuts him off.

Harold puts down the take out box with the chop sticks laid over the top. He picks up his mug of tea and swivels his chair around to glance at the computer monitor; the defragmenting is nearly done now.

“Speaking of stocks.” Harold looks back at Nathan as he speaks. “Have you seen ours lately?”

“You know I have,” Harold replies. “You might be the public face, Nathan, but I am well versed in all of our assets.”

“Don’t need to be defensive, Harold.” Nathan clicks a few keys on his computer across from Harold and leans his chin on his palm. “We are getting quite rich.”

“We certainly are.”

“Have you thought about moving into hardware?”

Harold raises his eyebrows. “Tired of programming, Nathan?” Nathan shrugs. “We’re programmers, Nathan. That’s the company. Are you hoping to take on IBM?”

“We have money, Harold, a lot of it. We wanted to push the bounds of technology, so let’s push it. Why keep all our eggs in one basket?”

“Software is not one basket.”

Nathan grins. “We could be IBM, Harold. We could be bigger than IBM. What we’ve built.” Nathan waves his hand in the air – motions to the rows of offices down the hall beyond Nathan’s office and the floors belonging to IFT below them. “We are a known name in computer technology, in reliable and ground breaking software. We could –”

“CPUs.”

Nathan blinks. “CPUs?”

“We could make CPUs,” Harold says. “Central processing units.”

“I know what CPU stands for, Harold.”

Harold leans forward over the table. “If we create our own CPUs, a better CPU, then a computer’s functional output could match our programming level. I wouldn’t have to dumb any coding down to make allowances for hardware limitations.” Harold laughs in the back of his throat and taps a finger on the table. “CPUs that are directly connected to RAM in one processor. We…” Harold laughs again. “This is why we work well together, isn’t it, Nathan?”

“I have the ideas and you implement?”

Harold grins. “And accept the awards.”

“I do look good in a tuxedo.”

They laugh at the same time.

Nathan picks up a paper napkin and rubs it over his hands. “Speaking of awards.” 

Harold raises an eyebrow. “Did I miss one?”

Nathan slides his rolling chair back toward his desk and opens his briefcase. He pulls out what appears to be a plaque then shuts it again. He rolls back over to the table and hands the plaque to Harold. “Excellence and Innovation in Computer Software.”

Harold huffs and flips the front around again to face Nathan. “Do you want to hang this one?”

Nathan shrugs and gestures to the wall. “I hang them all.”

“CPUs,” Harold says, bringing them back to something interesting. “We can –”

“We’re going to be making billions one day, Harold.”

Harold frowns. “Yes?”

“Just think about that,” Nathan says. “Think about how much you could do with a billion dollars, to be worth a billion dollars.”

Harold frowns. “Probably about the same as you can do with millions.”

Nathan laughs and shakes his head. “No, Harold, not the same.” He smiles slowly. “Just wait and see.”

––––––––––––––––

“Charles.”

“Ah, Ben, come in.”

Ben walks inside Charles’ tent – sparser than usual somehow but then again perhaps Ben is still used to the tent in war room mode. Charles stands up from his chair and it is then that Ben notices young Ethan standing near the wall. Ben frowns and glances to Charles again.

“We have a small problem which needs to be dealt with.”

“The French woman?” Ben asks.

Charles smiles. “Astute as always, Ben.” Ben notices Ethan shifting from side to side in his peripheral vision but Ben keeps his focus on Charles. “Her fellow shipmates have all died.”

“Yes, I heard –”

“But,” Charles continues over Ben while fixing him with a stern look. Ben forces himself not to frown in annoyance. “She still remains.”

“Do you want me to bring her here or…?” Ben raises both eyebrows.

“Don’t attempt to be mysterious, Benjamin, obviously I want you to remove her. The rest of her crew did not retain their lives and she should be no different.”

Ben only stares back at Charles. He does not ask about Jacob or the will of the island. If this French woman has lasted this long – months longer than her compatriots – then perhaps there is a reason? When is one’s survival the island’s will and when does the island require their intervention? After all, Dharma survived for fifteen years and Ben knows with absolutely certainty Dharma had nothing to do with the will of the island.

“She has a camp along the beach,” Ben says finally. “I can go tonight.”

“And you will take Ethan with you.”

Ben cannot stop himself from frowning this time. “Take him?”

“I told Charles I could do it myself!” Ethan suddenly pipes up.

Charles turns his head sharply toward Ethan. Ethan shrinks back against the tent wall almost instantly. He bites the edge of his lip and looks down at his feet. Charles turns back to Ben with what is only a slightly less chastising look. It makes Ben’s teeth clench.

“He needs to learn,” Charles says of Ethan. “He may be one of us but he still has a long way to go.”

Ben glances at Ethan as he shifts his weight back and forth from foot to foot. 

“He will accompany you to gain some experience.”

Ben’s eyes tick to Charles again. “A simple mission to learn on?”

“Unless you plan to make it difficult, Ben?”

Ben smirks. “Only if she does.”

And, as it happens, she does.

Hours later, Ben sits on the edge of his cot, knees together, arms resting on his legs with a baby girl wrapped in a blanket between his hands. She shifts around just a little as she lies on her back looking up at him. She blinks at him, looks away then looks back again as she gums her tiny fist. She does not cry, she does not try to squirm out of his arms and crawl across the island back to her mother. She appears completely content to lie on his legs staring at him.

“Alex,” Ben whispers. He smiles as she shifts her legs under the cloth. “Alexandra.” He rocks his head from side to side once. “Big name, isn’t it?”

She makes a noise – a gurgle, a squeak, something small and new and entirely baby. It makes Ben smile.

“Benjamin and Alexandra.” He bounces his legs just a little so she squeaks again and shifts her arms. “Ben and Alex.”

“Ben?”

Ben looks up to see Tom at his tent flap. Ben smiles. “You heard.”

“Everyone heard.” Tom steps inside the tent and walks over beside Ben. “This is the problem child then.”

Ben grunts but does not stop smiling. “She is not a problem.”

“But maybe you are.”

Ben looks up at Tom. “Because I spared her life?”

“Charles spared her.”

“If you want to see it that way, Tom.”

“You defied Charles.” Tom leans over as though he needs to emphasize his point by making Ben feel smaller, talked down to. “Charles sent you out to kill that woman and instead you come back with her still alive and her baby in tow.”

“Would you rather I murder this child?” Ben says with weight and does not cave under Tom’s stare. “This child who was born on the island. If it was really the island’s wish for her to die why was she born at all?”

“Not my place to speculate on and really not yours either, Ben.”

“Charles is not the island and he is not Jacob,” Ben says as he looks down at Alex again – little fingers grasping at littler toes. “He does not know everything.”

“It hasn’t been that long since the purge, Ben. Do you really want to be questioning our leader already?”

Ben jerks his head up again and tightens his grips on Alex’s sides. “I didn’t want to kill a child, Tom, is that a bad thing?”

Tom sighs quietly and crosses his arms. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.” He looks down at Alex and Ben sees the hint of a smile. He looks up at Ben again. “Be careful.” Then he turns and walks out of Ben’s tent.

Ben looks back to Alex. Her eyes are closed now and her hand is half in her mouth as though she forgot it was even there. Ben reaches up and gently pulls her hand back, shiny with saliva now. Oddly, Ben finds it endearing instead of disgusting. How could anyone kill someone so small? How could it be the island’s will that she die? 

Alex’s fingers curl around Ben’s finger in sleep and Ben feels something in his chest he cannot describe – deep and warm and primal.

“Maybe you were meant for me, Alex,” Ben whispers. “Maybe we were meant to be together.”

It is then that the logic clicks in as Ben stares at Alex. Ben has a daughter now; he has become a father.

––––––––––––––––

Harold's real life is computers. He works at Universal Heritage Insurance half the week, makes Harold Wren into as real a person as possible; He creates additional identities to cloak himself, Harold Crane, Harold Martin. But Harold's life – his real life in the evening – is coding, is algorithms, is Linux, is key strokes from his fingertips.

His life is computers and it is enough – it has to be enough – without Ben.

––––––––––––––––

Ben's life is the Island. He lives with his people, no more Dharma locking him in a cage, cooks over fires with Bea, patrols the beach with Pryce, wonders at this baby he has gained, learns the secrets of the Island he still has yet to know. His real life is rooted in the jungle and the sea and Jacob guiding them from afar.

His life is the Island and it is enough – it has to be enough – without Harold.

––––––––––––––––

“Just how much did you pay for this again?”

Harold takes the book back from Nathan. “It is a first edition Isaac Asimov and it’s leather bound.”

“So a lot?” Olivia says with a tilt of her head.

Harold rubs his hand over the cover of the book then stands up and walks toward one book case. “Yes,” he says as he slides the book back into place on the shelf. “’A lot’ would be a good description.”

Nathan and Olivia laugh at the same time.

“Good to know the insurance business pays so well,” Olivia says. “I wouldn’t want my monthly payments going nowhere.”

Harold gives her a look over his glasses at he turns around to face them again. 

Nathan nudges her with his shoulder. “Now, now Olivia. Who else is going to buy the precious first edition science fiction?”

“Collectors?”

“Or libraries.”

Harold frowns. “I think I can qualify as both of those.”

“Yes.” Nathan raises his glass to indicate the room they sit in. “Your entertaining room has more book shelves than seating.”

Olivia frowns and her eyes slide around the room, her lips moving silently as she counts. Nathan watches her for a moment then looks at Harold again with a grin. Harold only rolls his eyes and walks back over to the two white couches facing each other. He picks up his glass of whiskey from the side table, only his first compared to Nathan’s second, and finishes it in one gulp.

“Three seats and five book shelves,” Olivia says, gesturing to the three bookshelves on the wall behind Harold. “Though not holding only books, Nathan.”

“I suppose I see a picture frame or two.”

Olivia giggles again and squeezes Nathan’s knee.

“A man must have a hobby,” Harold says as he turns the glass around in his hand. “And for a luddite such as myself the printed word is a perfect immersion and worthy monetary pursuit.”

Nathan laughs like a scoff while Olivia chuckles more politely. Nathan gives Harold an incredulous look but Harold pointedly ignores him.

“I wouldn’t exactly call you a luddite, Harold,” Olivia says. “You have a home computer after all.”

Harold nods. “True.”

“But ask him to use it?” Nathan says and makes a ‘tsk tsk’ noise. “Absolutely hopeless.”

Olivia laughs again so she misses Harold’s sharp glare directed at Nathan. “Well, he is in good company with me then.” Olivia taps Nathan’s knee then looks at Harold. “Do we have dessert to go with that meal?”

Harold frowns. “Uh… I didn’t think to make…”

“I am sure I can find something.” Olivia jumps up from the couch. “Let me raid your kitchen.”

“Olivia, I can –” Harold starts to stand but Olivia waves a hand at him.

“No, no. I’ve been in your kitchen before, Harold. You cooked. I can forage.” She flashes a grin back at them. “Plus, then I can snoop.”

Harold tries to protest again but Olivia is already clicking across the apartment on her stiletto heels. Harold sighs and turns to Nathan across from him.

Nathan shakes his head. “She’s a lawyer, Harold. Why do you bother?”

“It’s my kitchen.”

“Right.” Nathan points behind Harold. “How much did the book actually cost? Hundreds or thousands?”

Harold shrugs. “Does it really matter?”

Nathan sips his drink again and shrugs back at Harold. “I guess not. I think your bank account can handle it.”

“Better than spending my money on more expensive whiskey I suppose.”

Nathan huffs but he is still smiling. “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

Harold glances over at his empty glass. “Quite smooth.” He touches the rim of the glass. “Did you get –”

“Olivia is pregnant.”

Harold’s head turns sharply back to Nathan, his eyes wide. “Olivia is…”

“Pregnant,” Nathan finishes with a slow smile. “She’s pregnant. We are…” he laughs. “We’re going to have a baby.” 

“Nathan,” and now Harold is smiling too.

They stand up at the same time, Harold pulling Nathan into a hug before he quite stands all the way up. Harold laughs, pulls away to look at Nathan’s face and shakes his head. “Wow.”

Nathan nods. “That’s one word for it.”

“When did you find out? Do you know if it's a… oh, I’m sure it’s too early, isn’t it? Does this mean…” Harold gasps and shakes his head.

“Calm down, Harold,” Nathan says patting Harold on the shoulder. “You’re not the one having the baby. Olivia is taking care of that.”

Harold chuckles. “She’ll be far better at it.”

Nathan picks up his glass from the table beside the couch and holds it up toward Harold. “Cheers.” Then drinks the rest.

“Congratulations,” Harold says and puts an arm around Nathan’s shoulders briefly. “You’re going to be a father.”

Nathan nods as he puts the glass back down. “And you’re going to be an uncle.” The smile freezes on Harold’s face. Nathan laughs at Harold’s face. “Ah ha, sorry, Harold. Not letting you out of that one. It is going to be Uncle Harold the minute that baby is born. So get ready.”

“Right,” Harold replies, his teeth tight and his brain spinning.

Then Olivia appears from the doorway carrying a bag of cookies. “Is this really all the sweets you have, Harold?” The two men turn to look at her and she frowns as the silence stretches for a few beats. “What?”

“I just let Harold know of his soon to be uncle role.”

Olivia grins and Harold forces his smile back to genuine. “Congratulations.”

Olivia squeezes the cookie bag with a girlish smile. “Thank you, Harold.”

Harold keeps smiling as Olivia walks over saying something about how she deserves more cookies and Nathan jokes about dining for two. 

Harold watches them with his expression frozen in place. He is happy for them, very happy, but if he is to become an uncle it should to be a child of Ben’s. It should be Ben giving Harold such news, Ben who he laughs with and worries with and suggests baby names to. It should be Ben the proud father and Harold the devoted uncle.

Harold thinks that perhaps this life is not enough, not as he hoped it could be, without Ben.

––––––––––––––––

“All right, Alex,” Ben says as he holds Alex’s arms so she remains steady. “Are we ready to try walking?”

“I don’t think you’re really supposed to force this kind of stuff, Ben.”

“Says the man with no children, Tom,” Ben replies with a bite on Tom’s name.

Tom sighs. “You stole yours.”

Ben glares. “I think you know the particulars of that situation well enough to choose a different word than ‘stole.’”

Tom puts up his hands and leans against of the pole of Ben’s tent. Ben stares at Tom for a moment until Tom stands up straight again with an eyebrow raise. “Does she even stand by herself?”

“Yes, are you done?”

Tom only shrugs and continues to watch the pair of them, Ben crouched low and Alex between his hands. Ben looks down at Alex again with a supportive smile.

“Okay, Alex,” Ben says seriously. “I am going to slowly let go and then you can follow me, all right? One foot in front of the other.”

“You think she understands you yet?”

“Only helpful commentary, Tom.”

Tom huffs. “As you wish.”

“Ready, Alex?” Ben asks. Alex smiles and makes a gurgling noise. Ben nods. “All right.”

Ben slides his hands slowly up to Alex’s finger tips until she stands alone, his hands only an inch away. Alex wobbles for a moment but does not fall down. 

Ben grins. “Good, good, Alex.” Ben backs up three steps and holds out his hands. “Now follow me.”

Alex stands still for a moment – Ben’s hands out, Tom leaning forward just a fraction – then she wobbles and falls back onto her rump with a small grunt. Ben and Tom both breathe out audibly.

“Told you not to force it.”

Ben sighs. “Encouraging, that’s what parents are supposed to do.”

“Not like yours?”

Ben looks sharply at Tom. He tilts his head. “Tell me, when did you become the camp therapist?”

Tom barks a laugh. “That'll be the day. If this group had a therapist they’d be the busiest one among us.”

Ben sits down on his cot. “Oh? But aren’t we all here for a purpose, Tom?”

“Does not mean it is easy, Ben,” Tom counters before Ben can wax poetic on the idea of duty or belonging or something ‘higher.’

“Sacrifice?”

Tom smiles. “And here I remember when you were just a snot nosed kid.”

Ben scowls. “I was never ‘snot nosed,’ as you so eloquently put it.”

“Think what you like, Ben.”

“Some of our lives were not so charmed,” Ben says darkly as his eyes wander back to Alex on the floor, fingers grasping at her toes.

“None of our lives were.” Ben looks at Tom again. “If our lives were happy and fulfilled out there.” Tom motions to the far away world beyond the tent and the island. “Then we wouldn’t have come here.”

“Of course.” Ben does not say how his life had been happy, more than happy, a perfect pair to live forever inside of, until he came to the island and lost the most important person to him. But that was not the island's fault. The island gave him hope and a purpose again.

Ben smiles at the thought as he turns his head to look at Alex. As he turns, he sees her push her second hand off the grass and stand up on her own two feet.

Ben’s eyes widen. “Alex.”

She giggles and takes one step toward him.

Ben’s face breaks into a smile and he stands up partway, hunched over, his arms out. “Alex!”

“Wow,” Tom says in disbelief.

Alex takes another two slow, steady steps toward Ben.

“Good, Alex, very good!” Ben says – and he feels as though he can hear his mother’s voice through his own, like any first time parent saying the exact same thing. “Come on, Alex, come on!”

She keeps walking slowly forward, smiling and giggling and so proud until she is in Ben’s hands, her fingers grasping at the fabric of his pants. Tom starts to laugh and Ben cannot stop himself either. He picks up Alex into his arms and kisses her on the cheek.

“You walked!” He feels ridiculous saying it but also as if no other parent has been this proud before. “Alex, you did it, you walked!”

Tom laughs. “You should see yourself, Ben.”

Ben smiles and glances around Alex to Tom. “Don’t worry, I can hear it well enough. But it is her first time.” He looks at Alex again. “Right, Alex? A first for you.” He smiles – something so simple, something pure and happy. “Walking.”

“Great,” Tom says only somewhat derisively, “now it’s going to be all baby all the time with you, isn’t it?”

Ben looks up at Tom and quite suddenly – it was already there beneath the pride and excitement – he suddenly hates Tom because he is not Harold. Harold should be here for her first steps. Harold should have stood right beside Ben urging Alex on as she walked toward them. Harold should be here as ‘Uncle Harold’ to watch Alex’s life unfold.

Ben thinks that perhaps this life is not enough, not as he hoped it could be, without Harold.

––––––––––––––––

“Isn’t this taking your need for control a bit too far, Harold?” Nathan says as he walks through Harold’s office door at Universal Heritage Insurance.

Harold shoots Nathan a look as Nathan reaches his desk and Harold takes the contract Nathan holds out from his hand. “I do not have a need for control.”

“And here I thought you only worked in half–truths, not outright lies.”

Harold sighs and twirls the pen in his hand around twice as he starts to read over the contract. “It is a safety measure.”

“Ah, yes.” Nathan’s voice is only slightly mocking, which Harold supposes is an improvement. “So this is a need to satisfy your paranoia? God forbid my future child know you’re not really an insurance salesman.”

“I do sell insurance.” Nathan huffs once as Harold turns the page. Harold looks up at Nathan. “Look at it this way; we are expanding IFT’s interests.”

“Yes, through a shell corporation. Very you, Harold.”

“The profits come back to us.”

Nathan shakes his head as Harold returns to reading the contract. “Because insurance is so lucrative.”

“Actually,” Harold says as he taps his pen on the page and glances up at Nathan again. “It is; just not as lucrative as IFT.”

Nathan smiles. “Many things aren’t.”

Harold smiles back at him. “Are you satisfied enough in your verbal repartee to allow me to finish reading the contract now before I sign?”

Nathan shifts his weight back then forward again until he sighs and his posture relaxes. “Read on, Harold, and congratulations on buying your workplace front with your actual company.”

Harold only smiles back at Nathan. “Thank you.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben frowns as he reads over the most recent assignments from Charles as Alex sleeps on their cot. The list includes the usual minor duties, food shifts and island security rotations, but that is not all.

Ben stands up from his chair and walks out of his tent, still half buried in the words on the page in his hand. He looks up and sees Beatrice sitting on a log weaving a fishing net. He walks over and stands beside her. 

She smiles without looking up at him. “Ben?”

“Have you seen this?”

Bea peers up at him then. Her eyes tick to the paper in his hand then she looks back down again. “I haven’t. Something bothering you?”

“Charles wants to restrict recruitment to the island.”

“Oh?”

“He wants to close it off, not allow anymore newcomers in.”

Bea chuckles. “We generally do like to avoid outsiders for the protection of the island, Ben.”

Ben frowns. “We were all outsiders before we found a purpose here. Before we were called here like others will continue to be.” 

“Are you planning on making a city here, Ben?” She glances at him with an amused smile before looking back to the rope in her lap.

Ben stares coolly down at her. “We were all brought to this island at some point in our lives; we all chose this, were chosen for this. Do we stop that now?”

Bea looks up at him then, her hands still weaving the net on her lap. “If that is what Jacob thinks it best…”

Ben frowns at her and turns away without another word. He heads straight for Charles’ tent. As he nears he sees Colleen standing guard outside, arms crossed and large knife on her belt.

“Colleen, I need to speak with him.”

She cocks her head. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” He flashes the piece of paper at her. “About this.”

She laughs once. “Miffed about your perimeter duty?”

“Always a pleasure, Colleen.” 

Ben shoves by her and into the tent, she scoffing in annoyance. Just as Ben is about to snap ‘Charles’ he realizes the tent is empty. Ben pivots and steps back out of the tent. He turns his head to Colleen. She only purses her lips and raises both eyebrows back at him.

“Where is he?”

Colleen shrugs and for a moment, a look like concern passes over her face. “I don’t know.”

When Ben finds Richard, Richard reads the paper slowly never looking at Ben as Ben talks.

“Is this really what Jacob wants? Closing off the island completely when there may be others in the future which can help, which can protect the island just as much as we are now? We all won’t live forever here. Does Jacob think we can sustain or is Charles perhaps making decisions all his own?” Ben leaves his thought hanging but Richard does not take the bait. 

“Where is Charles, Richard?” Richard finally looks up at Ben. “No one seems to know. Where is he, Richard?”

Richard hands the paper back to Ben and does not answer.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits with his arms propped on his knees staring at the tan carpet. He notices a few spots of discoloration which have probably been steam cleaned time and time again. Blood is hard to get out of fabrics or so Harold has been told. He absently thinks that Ben would know more about that than him. Harold swallows bile and blows out a breath. 

Harold is not sure why he feels so nervous, anxious, flighty even; it is not his son being born. His eyes tick to his watch – two in the morning – and he glances around the waiting room. Another couple sits in the far corner from him but they are half asleep, unaware of anything around them. Harold’s eyes switch back to the carpet and he wonders if he should go home. Is he really any help just sitting here?

“Harold.”

Harold looks up sharply at Nathan’s voice. “Is something wrong?” Harold starts to stand up. “It’s only been an hour, hasn’t it, since she –”

“Nothing’s wrong, well…” Nathan laughs once and Harold just then notices that Nathan does not have the hospital mask or gown on anymore. “They kicked me out.”

Harold raises his eyebrows and sits down again. “Kicked you out?”

“Well, Olivia did and then the nurses did.”

Harold frowns. “Why?”

“They said I was getting too excited, upsetting Olivia or something.” Harold narrows his eyes and Nathan grimaces. “I may have also sworn at the doctor but I promise it was only out of concern for Olivia.”

Harold laughs and shakes his head. “And who’d have thought you would be one of those future fathers, more hysterical than the one giving birth.”

Nathan shrugs as he sits down next to Harold. “I guess I am full of surprises.”

“Are you on a time out or are you banned for the duration?”

“Uh… I’m not…” Nathan looks back over his shoulder. “They would get me wouldn’t… I mean, I haven’t given birth before.”

Harold laughs. “No, no you haven’t.”

Nathan turns and looks at Harold. He sighs and smiles wide and tired and happy and a bit crazy. “I’m going to be a father in an hour.”

“Probably longer than that, Nathan.”

“But soon, Harold, today.”

Harold nods. “Yes.”

“A father.”

“Yes, that.”

Nathan barks a laugh so Harold hears the couple in the corner stir in surprise. Nathan laughs again and claps his hands on his thighs, bouncing his feet a few times. Harold rubs a hand over Nathan’s shoulders until Nathan stops bouncing his feet.

“I keep thinking.” Nathan shakes his head and does not look at Harold as he speaks. “I just keep thinking what if. What if this, what if that, what if I’m… what if I fail?” He looks at Harold sharply then looks away again. “No going back now, so I can’t fail.”

“Nathan…”

“That baby certainly won’t have to worry about money.” Nathan laughs in a halfhearted way. “But you know what they say, money can’t buy happiness.” Nathan shrugs. “But I think it helps.”

“The two of you will be great parents, Nathan. I think the fact that you are worrying about possibly not being a good parent shows an aptitude for the task.”

“It’s not a test, Harold. It is not computer code.” He stares at Harold again. “This is a person.”

“I know,” Harold says quietly. “But you’re also not the first person ever to be a father. You’ll do the best you can like everyone else who tries to parent.”

“I don’t just want to try,” Nathan says softly back.

“You won’t be alone, Nathan. You have Olivia with you.”

“And you,” Nathan says a little desperately.

Harold nods. “And me.”

Nathan grips Harold’s hand suddenly so tightly that Harold hisses in pain. Nathan laughs in surprise and lets go of Harold’s hand. Harold smiles and pats the back of Nathan’s hand in a consoling gesture. They sit awkwardly for a moment before they turn and face the wall again in silence.

“What were the final names?” Harold asks after a few minutes. “Last I remember you were fighting against Nadia.”

“We’re not Russian.”

Harold laughs once. “And was it Steven for a boy?”

Nathan shakes his head. “We have to cut that one out. Apparently Olivia’s sister had an ex–boyfriend named Steven which was enough reason to not name our son that.”

“Right,” Harold replies with the same tone of accepting confusion.

“We are down to William or Wendy.”

Harold tries not to frown. “Wendy?”

Nathan sighs in what Harold would describe as ‘long suffering husband’ fashion. “We got on a W kick somehow and I think it was her great–grandmother’s name.”

“At least you didn’t decide on Peter for a boy.”

Nathan bursts into laughter with his hands over his face. He shakes as he laughs, clearly more from nerves and not Harold’s wit. He drops his hands, some tears on his face and still grinning. “I hate when you’re funny.”

Harold smiles benignly. “I will try and limit myself.”

Several hours later a nurse appears in the hall, barely finishes saying ‘Mr. Ingram’ before he is bolting towards her. 

Harold cannot stop himself, he runs after Nathan. They jog down the corridor until the nurse ushers Nathan through a set of doors into the delivery room. Harold falters, takes a step back and waits outside the door. He glances at the windows but another set of doors block any real view. To be fair, Harold does not need to see the ‘miracle of birth’ but he wants to be there for both of them. Harold paces back and forth outside the door, arms at his sides. He stares at the tile and wonders how many years it would take other men in his position to make a gully into the floor. He looks down the hall a few yards where there is an outer wall. He sees the sun has risen now so it must be around six in the morning.

“Harold.”

Harold turns sharply at Nathan suddenly opening the swinging doors. “Nathan?”

“No need to worry about the Peter Pan jokes.” Nathan grins. “My son is William Ingram.”

––––––––––––––––

“Nothing? How can there be nothing wrong? She is unconscious. Is the baby all right? They have to know something.”

“I’m only telling you what he told me, Ben!”

Ben sighs and rubs a hand over his face as Colleen sits down beside him. She crosses her arms and fidgets almost immediately. Ben stares at the tent. He wants to suggest they go to The Staff but he imagines Charles would not take kindly to such a suggestion.

“Even in these extenuating circumstances,” Ben mutters.

“What?” Colleen snaps.

Ben frowns. “Nothing.”

“Anything on Hannah?” Pryce asks suddenly appearing on Ben’s other side with Tom behind him.

Ben and Colleen both shake their heads.

“They have no idea what’s wrong?” Tom asks. “Not even Richard?”

“She’s feverish, still hasn’t woken up,” Colleen says. 

“And they have no idea,” Ben finishes.

Tom and Pryce look at each other then they turn toward the tent.

“Don’t,” Colleen says. “Too many people have been going in already. You can’t help.”

“The hell I can’t,” Pryce says. “What about Dharma?”

“What?” Colleen and Tom say together.

‘Thank you,’ Ben thinks but says nothing.

“They have medicine, better facilities.” Pryce gestures toward the approximate location of the abandoned Dharma barracks. “They had a medical station. There has to be something left there. We may not have needed it before but it looks like we need it now.”

“He has a point,” Ben says quietly as if he had not thought the same thing already.

“Don’t be stupid,” Colleen says. “It’s probably all poison.”

“Because of them or us?” Tom says dryly.

Colleen stands up with a scoff. “We got rid of Dharma for a reason.”

“That does not make their medicine any different,” Pryce says. “You don’t know what they have. It could be something that could help. Would you rather do nothing when Hannah and her baby might die?”

“What did you say?” Greta and Bonnie walk up quickly from the other side of the row of tents. “Did you say Hannah may die?”

“We don’t know that, Pryce,” Tom admonishes.

“It hardly looks good. But Dharma’s stations are –”

“Pryce, you have got to be –”

“Enough, Colleen.” Pryce steps closer into her personal space. “I am here to protect the island and that means protecting our people too. So if I need to use Dharma medicine to do it, I will.”

“Do they have something that would help?” Greta suddenly asks Ben.

All eyes turn to Ben. Ben breathes in once slowly and tilts his head. “They may. I can’t be certain.”

“But it’s worth a try!” Greta says insistently. “Which one was their medical facility? The Staff, right?”

“Oh come on, how can that help?” Bonnie says with a scoff. “They were crazy scientists doing experiments that accomplished nothing. How could they possibly have anything they would help Hannah? I don’t think an aspirin will do it when she has been out for two days.”

Pryce waves a hand again. “I’m not saying it will, only –”

“Only trying to create false hope,” Tom says in warning way.

“We can’t just give up on her, Tom,” Ben replies with the same tone.

“Enough.”

The whole group turns at the sound of Isabel’s voice. She stands near the patient tent, expression stern and drawn. Charles stands directly behind her with blood on his hands. Ben knows what Isabel is about to say.

“It is too late. Hannah is gone, as is the baby.”

For ten seconds no one says anything. Colleen and Pryce continue to stare at each other; Tom rubs a hand on Ben’s shoulder; Bonnie starts to cry silent tears while Greta appears murderous. Before anyone can jump into any sort of speech or sobs or insane action, Charles steps in front of Isabel.

“This is, of course, a tragedy. Hannah was a valued member of our group and her baby would have been cherished. Luke is with her and we shall have a funeral tonight.”

“But why did she die?” Ben asks. “There was nothing wrong.”

“Apparently there was, Ben,” Isabel says tersely.

“No, there wasn’t,” Ben insists. “Ivan, the one among us with medical knowledge, did not find anything and Richard said the same thing. If they could not determine a cause then why did she die?”

Charles’s expression is blank, as if he is completely unconcerned by such questions. “It was the will of the island.”

“It can’t…” Greta starts but Bonnie grips her arm and she stops talking.

Charles looks around at each of them as he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe off his hands. “It was Hannah’s fate to die and we can only trust there was reason. The island has always protected us as we protect it and it has always removed those who should not be here.”

“But Hannah was one of us,” Ben insists. “It could not have just been fate.”

“Enough, Ben,” Charles snaps. “Do you really believe Jacob would have let it happen if it was not supposed to? Do you believe she could die on this island if that was not what her fate was meant to be?”

“But nothing was –”

“It has happened. It is over. All of you!” Charles snaps. “This is a time to mourn, not question. We must prepare for the funeral.” Charles throws his bloody handkerchief to the ground and storms away allowing no more time for rebuke.

“Come on,” Pryce says. “We should help Luke with Hannah.”

“Really?” Ben snaps. “That’s it?”

“What more do you want, Ben?” Tom asks.

“I want an answer!”

Colleen sighs and touches Ben’s arm. “Charles is right, Ben. It was her fate.”

Ben turns sharply toward her with a hard look. “Do you really believe that? Has anyone died here of illness before? So why her? Why now?” He gazes around at the others all staring at him. “Are you really going to accept this as just fate and do nothing?”

––––––––––––––––

Harold and Nathan walk out of the opera late in the evening into a slight rain. The crowds from the show flow around them, some braving the rain with playbills over their heads. 

Nathan sighs and stuffs his program into his inner jacket pocket. "I take back the jokes about bringing an umbrella."

Harold raises an eyebrow at Nathan and holds up his umbrella. "Wouldn't hurt you to check the weather every now and then."

"Ah, but can man really predict the weather, Harold?" Nathan puts his hand dramatically on his chest. "Nay, as impossible as the riddles of Turandot."

Harold chuckles. "Maybe you'll turn out to be Calaf."

"Does that make you my Turandot?" Nathan grins and pulls at Harold's bowtie. "And such a prize."

Harold scoffs and opens the umbrella. As they step out onto the street away from the opera house, Harold sweeps the umbrella up and over their heads. Then a man's voice suddenly gasps in front of them. "You!"

Harold stops short making Nathan knock his head on the umbrella. "Ow, okay, watch out for the taller people here. Not everyone is... Harold?"

Harold, however, is not listening to Nathan. Harold is staring at the man stopped in front of them on the street. He is as tall as Nathan though at least two decades older and he is staring at Harold openly. It is not a happy expression.

"What are you doing here, boy?" The man says sharply.

"Haro...."

"What is it, Charles?" A visibly pregnant woman steps up beside the older man, apparently named Charles.

He does not answer her but keeps looking at Harold. "I asked you a ques –"

Harold cuts him off. "I am afraid I do not know you, sir; You must have mistaken me for someone else," Harold nudges a confused looking Nathan with his elbow to walk around Charles and the woman. "Excuse us."

As they pass, Charles grabs Harold's forearm. "Don't you play games with me, Benjamin." He speaks like an angry parent to a child and Harold wonders just what role Charles fills on the island. "You cannot be here. You are..." He trails off as he stares at Harold, seeming to notice something. "You look different..."

"I'm not who you think I am." Harold tilts his head and speaks so only Charles can hear. "I thought your people didn't leave the island?"

Then Harold pulls away and keeps on walking, Nathan skipping once to catch up and stay safely under the umbrella.

"Harold, who was –"

"Just some mistaken identity, I'm sure." Harold says quickly. "Shall we get a cab?"

Harold returns home to his townhouse - the only property he has owned by Harold Finch, which Nathan does not know about - a couple hours later. He hangs up his coat, puts his umbrella in the can by the door then walks up two flights of stairs to the third floor. In a room on the west end of the house, Harold flicks the switch to turn his radio transmitter on. He puts the head set over his head as it beeps and beeps.

And beeps a third time so Ben finally notices the sound. Ben has only been stationed at The Flame a handful of times – monitoring any sort of communications which might happen across the island, intentional or not – but Ben has never caught a signal before. Ben grabs the headset and flicks the respond button, though he says nothing.

"...Hello? I am looking for –"

"Harold!"

"Ben?"

They both breathe in audibly, as if their names on each other's lips are brand new and as old as time. For a few seconds they are silent, just breathing together.

"Hello, Harold," Ben says, breaking the silence. "It's good to hear your voice."

Harold clears his throat. "And you, Ben. I'm calling..." Harold suddenly feels foolish to be calling Ben only because he ran into a stranger on that street."Ben, I am calling because I met someone tonight."

Ben blinks and stares at the red light of the active communication link. "As fascinating as your love life must be, Harold, I am surprised you would decide to call me now because of a date."

Harold sighs. "Not like that. It was someone who thought I was you, who called me Benjamin."

Ben's jaw clenches and his mood flips over. "Who?"

"His name was Charles."

Ben presses his lips together tightly then sits up straighter. "Charles."

"Outside of the opera. He was with a woman and he was quite displeased to see me."

"You mean me."

Harold 'hmms.' "As he thought." Harold swallows and feels ridiculous – guilty – calling over something so random, so business. "I... I thought you should know."

"Thank you, Harold. I should know."

"Well. I suppose I should –"

"No!" Ben leans forward as if he could grab Harold and pull him close. Ben clears his throat and tries to compose himself. "Please, don't hang up, Harold."

Harold touches the brim of his glasses and presses his palm into the table. He thinks about the last time he saw Ben, his face, his conviction in his people and his precious island, when Harold felt the desire to pull away. "I'm here."

Ben pulls his palm up from the table and touches the side of his head. He wonders for a moment where his glasses are. Ben thinks he should ask 'how are you,' ask about New York, or about Harold's business but it feels like small talk, like nothing deep enough.

Instead Ben says, "I have a daughter."

Harold sits up suddenly in his chair. "A daughter?"

"Her name is Alex."

"You have a daughter?" Harold gasps. "I..." Harold smiles. "So, you're a father?"

"It surprises me too sometimes. She is always happy, like we were in Oregon. Young and impulsive. She finds joy in the smallest things." Ben smiles. "You should meet her."

"Her name is Alex?" Harold asks quietly.

"Alexandra."

Harold chuckles. "Big name."

"You should see her," Ben says fondly. "Growing quickly. Harold..."

"I know what you mean," Harold interrupts. "My friend, Nathan, he has a son now. It's turned me into a sort of uncle."

"An uncle?"

"Uncle Harold to his son William, Will. He is..." Harold's eyes wander to the windows across the empty room. "He makes me think of us when we were that small, how we were always together."

Ben nods. "When things were simple."

Harold's tone shifts. "Before the island."

"I hope you don't feel the need to start a lecture, Harold. We have both chosen our paths and there is no going back now."

Harold clicks his teeth. "No, you're right, we have chosen our paths no matter how right or wrong they may be."

"There is no need to philosophize on things you do not understand, Harold," Ben says in a flat tone then he softens, "especially when we haven't spoken in a while."

"I..." Harold runs a hand over his face, under his glasses. "I miss you." He drops his hand again. "I don't know if I am still angry Ben, I don't know how I feel but I miss you. I can't not."

"I know." Ben stares out over the empty control room. "I miss you."

Then Ben hears the sound of the outside door to The Flame opening and closing again with a click. Ben watches the doorway until he sees Richard. Richard frowns and stops just inside the door when he sees Ben wearing the headset.

"I am afraid I have to cut our conversation short," Ben says quietly.

"What?" Harold opens his mouth to ask – to plead for more time – but instead he clears his throat appropriately, adult and controlled, not a desperate lonely child. "I'm glad we spoke again, Ben."

"So am I, Harold."

"Oh, Ben, I don't know if it bears mentioning but the woman, the one with Charles, she was pregnant."

Ben raises his eyebrows slowly so Richard tilts his head in question. "She was pregnant?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Harold."

Ben presses the button to cut off the connection. He takes off the headset and puts it down on the table in front of him. He folds his fingers together and stares at Richard.

"Who was that?" Richard asks.

"Did you know, Richard," Ben says tersely, "that Charles is in New York City, right now."

Richard takes a step close. "New York?"

"The very one and," Ben stands up and walks around the transmitter board, "he is with a woman."

"A pregnant woman?" Richard asks, clearly having heard that part of the conversation, at least one sided.

"Don't we have some rules about outsiders, Richard?"

Richard nods once. "We do."

When Ben is back in his tent – angry, controlled, ambitious and happy, nostalgic, the sound of Harold's voice in his ear. Ben picks up Alex, half asleep yet still smiling. "I talked to your uncle tonight."

When Harold lies in his bed – tried, conflicted, concerned but also happy, nostalgic, the sound of Ben's voice in his ear. Harold lies back against the pillows and smiles at Ben's face in his mind.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits at home – one of his homes – with Will playing on the floor. Will stacks blocks, makes towers and Harold helps him. Will is talking now and he calls Harold ‘uncle.’ It is somewhat unnerving to have this unconventional family relationship with his best friend’s son, being an unrelated uncle. Then again, Nathan would not have allowed anything else.

“Uncle Har… taller.” Will hands Harold a block. “Taller, Uncle Harroul.”

Will still has not been able to really manage the name ‘Harold.’ Harold is willing to give him time on that one. He adds two blocks to the base of Will’s tower then adds the one Will handed him to the top.

“Like the Empire State Building, Will.”

Will squeals and nearly knocks over the whole project as he waves his hands. Harold tenses, ready to save the toddler from an avalanche of blocks, but everything remains in place. Harold blows out a breath and glances around the apartment, sparser and more baby safe then most of the property he owns. He thinks this one may become the exclusive babysitting apartment.

“Your father would be quite proud of your budding architectural skills were he here and not managing the board.”

Will laughs and kicks two blocks under the couch with his foot. Harold moves to stand and regain the blocks but sits back down before he is half way up. They have enough blocks between them now and he can get those two later.

“I want the… the blue…” Will reaches toward Harold and a block out of reach. “Blue!”

Harold hands Will the block. “And what is this color?” He holds up a red block.

“Blue.” Will holds up the block he is holding.

Harold laughs. “Yes, it is. And this one?”

“Not blue.”

Harold smiles and adds the block to their tower. “You’re not wrong.”

Harold wonders suddenly how old Ben’s daughter is. Do the two of them play with blocks?

“Would you and Alex play together if…” Harold whispers to Will though Will pays no notice of Harold’s change in mood. 

What is Alex’s favorite color? Her favorite toy? Does she even have blocks or Legos or toys on the island? 

Ben said he has a daughter now. He did not say how or how long or any of the details Harold wants. Harold keeps thinking of a hundred questions he should have asked because he is an uncle. He is a real uncle on a mystery island and he is this uncle here in New York. He loves Will as if Will was his real nephew but Harold cannot help wondering after a niece he may never meet.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits in the grass as Alex runs back and forth with Tom and Greta in front of him. They are up on a high hill about a mile from camp, a wonderful view of the valley below. Greta taps Alex on the shoulder with a gasp and runs at half speed away from Alex as Alex squeals. Ben chuckles and watches them run. Alex trips and nearly falls, Ben rising to his feet but she regroups using Tom for support. Tom shoots a look at Ben and Ben smiles back. He wishes it was Harold in the grass running with Alex.

Alex looks over at Ben then runs toward him with another squeal. “Daddy!”

“Alex.” Ben crouches down as she nears. “Are you winning?”

“It’s tag!”

“So, yes, of course, you are winning?”

“You don’t win tag.” She makes a face at him then laughs. “You tag.”

Ben nods sagely. “Ah, I see.”

Then she bops him on the nose with her small hand. “Tag, you’re it!”

Alex dashes away toward Greta, yelling about daddy now being it. Ben just smiles for a moment then he looks up and runs after Alex. The four of them run around in slow circles, Alex in the middle with a constant smile on her face, until Tom and Greta leave and it is only Ben and Alex tagging back and forth. 

“All right, I think we are done with tag,” Ben says as he collapses onto the ground, lying on his back.

He stares at the clouds for a moment, white and shaped like memory until Alex’s face fills his vision.

“Are you tired daddy?”

He smiles and grabs her around the middle. “Your daddy is older than you are. It means I tire out more quickly.”

Alex groans then starts to laugh as Ben tickles her sides. She giggles, tries to squiggle away until Ben rolls her onto her side beside him in the grass.

“There, you are free,” he says with a tired breath. How do children have so much energy?

Alex suddenly kisses Ben’s cheek as she sits up. “I love you, daddy.” Then she jumps up again and runs into the grass after something that only she sees.

Ben sits up and watches her run – young, smiling, innocent.

“Ben?”

Ben glances up as Richard sits down beside him. “Richard.”

“Good spot to play.”

“Do you remember being a child, Richard?”

“You said you were concerned,” Richard says passing over Ben’s question. “Worried about, Charles?”

“He leaves the island. He leaves for his own pleasures, not for the island’s sake or protection. He has a pregnant woman out there, Richard. What can be done?”

Richard is silent for a long moment as he watches Alex dig in the dirt until he finally speaks with a solid tone that gives Ben hope, “Jacob will decide.”

––––––––––––––––

"Good to see the new processor is just as popular as all the software outputs for the year have been."

Nathan chuckles as he pulls a garment bag out of his closet. "Shall I jot down the gossip at the benefit again, see which IFT product wins the ranking?"

Harold leans back against Nathan's dresser. "I would bet on the business finances package."

Nathan scoffs as he lays the garment back on the bed. "You would, Harold. It's the CPU. It's only our second version and it out paces the first twice over."

Harold shrugs. "People care about their money."

"People care about speed."

"Our finance software is the high seller every year. I bet on consistency."

Nathan pulls his suit out of the bag and hooks the hanger over the closet door. "Lies, you bet on innovation."

"My stock portfolio would counter that."

"Well, maybe not bet on it but you prefer it." Nathan pulls on the dress pants and buttons them up. "Why did we develop our own CPU in first place? Because you need variety, you need to always be creating something new. You don't want to just cash in the checks on version one, you want a new push, another program."

Harold smiles. "You're right. I suppose I always like to figure out the next problem."

"Good news for us." Nathan pulls his suit jacket on. "Sure you don't want to come to this benefit? We'll probably get an award for it and we are donating quite a lot of our money."

"Do you remember the last time I came to a gala or an award dinner?"

Nathan purses his lips as he rifles through his ties. "Before my son was born?"

"Further back than that. You're the front man, Nathan."

"Dad!" Will suddenly runs into the room dragging a white sweater in one hand. "Dad, mom says –"

"Mom wants her sweater back, young man!" Olivia rushes into the room and makes a grab for her sweater as Will runs around Nathan. "If you keep dragging it..."

"Mom says I can't come... she says... she says I..."

"You're mother's right, Will," Nathan says. "This is an adults only event."

Will makes a petulant noise as Olivia crouches down to try and retrieve her sweater from the child again. Will dodges her hand, balling up her sweater under his other arm.

"Will, please."

"No fair." Will runs across the room and wedges himself behind Harold's legs up against the dresser. Harold jerks and stands up straight while Will keeps clinging to his legs. Will peeks around one side of Harold as Olivia walks over. "No!" He shouts. "I wanna come!"

"Will." Harold puts his hand on top of Will's head. "Can I see the sweater?"

Will looks up at Harold. "Why?"

"Just for a minute."

He hands the sweater up to Harold. Harold smiles then hands the rumpled sweater over to Olivia. Will makes a betrayed noise and shoves himself away from Harold.

"It is your mother's sweater," Harold calls as Will stomps out of the room. 

"Sorry, Harold," Olivia says as she pulls the sweater over her shoulders. "He learns to talk and he just wants to whine."

Nathan laughs. "Perhaps he'll be a lawyer."

Olivia gives Nathan a stern look but she is smiling. She rocks her hips as she walks forward toward Nathan. "Well, Mr. Ingram, this lawyer thinks if you don't pick out a tie," she spins the circular tie hanger in the closet around once, "I'll have to pass a motion for a mistrial."

"On what grounds, counselor?"

"On the grounds that it's black tie, so you don't have too much of a choice." She pulls a silk tie with a black on black box pattern off the hanger and leans close to Nathan to press the tie against his chest. "But the lawyer for the defense would like to alert the court of how damn good you look in black."

"I'll make a note in the record," Nathan says as he loops the tie around his neck and presses his lips to Olivia's.

"I feel I should remind you both that I am still in the room," Harold says.

They turn their heads toward him with matching cheeky smiles. 

Olivia takes one step back from Nathan. She checks her watch then taps her nail on the face. "Fifteen minutes." She looks at Harold. "Sure you're not coming? You could be the pretty face on Nathan's other arm?"

Harold only rolls his eyes. "Please, you know how I mix with computers."

The sound of the door bell dings somewhere out in the apartment. 

"The sitter," Olivia says as she pivots on the spot and out of the room.

Harold watches the doorway for a moment then turns back to Nathan. Nathan ties his tie slowly, staring at his hands.

"Nathan?"

“I am the luckiest man in the world, Harold." Nathan grins at him. "IFT, Will, my best friend." He points at Harold. "And Olivia." Nathan laughs. "Did you think at MIT that life would be this good?"

Harold thinks of Ben and walks over to Nathan. "We were young at MIT, Nathan. I'm pretty sure we thought the world would be our oyster, or some other optimistic quote."

Nathan smiles again, that front man grin. "It can't go down from here, Harold."

––––––––––––––––

"I think we should move into the barracks."

Tom jerks his head up so he almost drops his bowl of stew. "What?"

"The barracks?" Colleen says as Danny says, "You mean Dharma?" at the same time.

"And what benefit would that bring?" Isabel asks tersely.

"They are just houses now," Ben looks at Danny, "not Dharma. They are already built and they have far more amenities than our camp."

"I'll have you know my tent is the deluxe model," Tom says with a laugh.

"We're here for the island, Ben," Isabel says. "Those houses represent an invasion."

"And yet they still stand. We haven't pulled them down; the Dharma stations still dot the island. If the materials are here why not use them for the good of the island?"

"We've heard this tune before, Ben," Tom says.

Colleen shrugs as she stands up to pick up a piece of wood for the fire. "He has a point. I mean, does anyone really like gathering and cutting firewood when we could have electricity?"

"And the Dharma facilities are not inherently bad," Ben says as he stands up as well, pacing slowly around the fire. 

"They were bad for you, Ben," Tom adds.

"The barracks is a just community," Ben continues without acknowledging Tom. "It could be far more like home than being hunter gatherers."

Ben hears Bea and a few others around the fire laugh.

"The island is home," Pryce pipes up from the edge of the fire line. "Why do we need buildings?"

"Why not?" Bonnie snaps back. "Are tents and cots really better?"

"It is a moot point." Charles voice suddenly silences the conversation as he walks toward the circle around the fire. "We live here, our purpose is here. We live in the jungle because our main purpose is to protect this island and its secrets." Charles stares at Ben as he speaks. "We should not be concerned with our own creature comforts."

"This from our leader who finds regular time to leave the island?" Ben retorts, his voice low and threatening. "Tell us, Charles, just what needs your attention on the mainland so often?"

No one around the fire says a word.

"It is not your concern, boy," Charles replies sharply. "The security of the island is my responsibility as leader," Charles leans on the word 'leader' as if to say 'what you are not.' "And at times the outside world is required to maintain that."

"I see. So, not a pleasure trip?" Charles face shifts. "Not the opera in New York City with a woman?" Ben tilts his head. "Just what is her name, Charles?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"But I imagine she is not the most important mainland trip for you now; I would imagine it would be the baby. Tell us, Charles, was it a boy or a girl?"

Charles swallows once and Ben has him.

"Charles," Tom says, breaking the fire side silence. "Is this all true?"

"Just how often do you leave the island?" Pryce asks.

"A child?" Greta hisses to Bonnie beside her.

Charles glances around the circle as the whispers and searching looks grow. Then he stares at Ben again. Ben knows Charles cannot accuse him of being in New York without incriminating himself. Yet the look on his face also asks the question, 'how' and 'if it wasn't you then who?'

Ben steps closer to the fire, regains the group's focus. "You've had a child with an outsider, Charles. That is against the rules."

"You have no right to question me!" Charles finally snaps. "Who exactly is the leader on this island, Benjamin? It is certainly not you!"

Ben cocks his head as the silence stretches again. "Isn't our real leader, Jacob, Charles?"

––––––––––––––––

Olivia, Harold and Will sit in a line at Citi Field. Harold holds two hotdogs, one for Will and possibly a second hotdog for Will which was not the original plan.

"So who are we rooting for?" Olivia asks.

"I'll be honest," Harold says as Will grabs one hotdog out of Harold's hand and nearly knocks over his soda. Harold catches the soda with only a small amount spilling on his shoe. "I'll be honest," Harold continues, "I am rooting for rain."

Olivia laughs. "Not the Yankees? Don't all New Yorkers love the Yankees?"

"I'm not from New York originally," Harold notes.

"Your home team then?" She raises her eyebrows with that 'give me your back story' face.

Harold purses his lips and side steps her bait. "I will have to take you two to a Red Sox or a Cubs game; both better teams."

"Hot dog!" Will suddenly shouts with some hotdog half chewed up in his mouth.

Olivia and Harold both look at Will. He bounces once in his seat and holds up his half eaten hotdog. Harold hands the second hotdog to Olivia over Will's head.

She snorts. "Not sure I want it either."

"Perhaps he will want a second one."

"Lucky Will." She raises her eyebrows at Harold. "So, we don't want the Mets or the Yankees to win? We have to pick one. Hmm." She taps her chin. "I vote Mets."

"No." Harold points at the field. "Have you watched the pitcher? And their outfield is just..." Harold makes a derisive noise.

"Yankees it is!"

Harold nods with a sigh. "Better choice right now I suppose." Harold picks up the soda and takes a sip. "But there is the New York City opportunity of a guaranteed New York win."

Olivia laughs. "And yet you still seem displeased with that." She barks another laugh. "Baseball snob!"

Harold frowns, buttons the top button of his jacket then unbuttons it again. He clears his throat, watches Steve Sax hit a pitch between first and second, then Harold nods. "Yes, perhaps."

Olivia grins at the side of Harold's head and nudges Harold's shoulder with her fist. Harold sighs but smiles. Then suddenly Will squeals as the next hitter – Harold could not see who it was – hits a home run and the crowd shouts. Olivia and Harold jump up as Will throws his hotdog in excitement.

"Score!" He shouts. 

"It's a 'run,' Will," Olivia corrects.

"Uncle Harold, he hit it!" Will squeals, only half listening as he jumps up and down.

Harold laughs and grips Will's shoulder. "It's called a home run when it goes that far. See," Harold picks Will up and points where the ball flew into the stands. "Home run."

"Home run!" Will repeats.

"Go Yankees," Olivia says gripping Will's hand then reaching over to shake Harold's shoulder. "I guess it's true what they say, the Yankees always win."

Harold scoffs. "We are only on the fourth inning."

Olivia laughs. "And you know I'm not too upset about that. Football is... ugh, but I can get behind baseball."

Harold looks at her as Will tries to pull off Harold's glasses. "Glad to make a convert."

"Too bad Nathan couldn't come." Her face falls partway, like she is trying to keep smiling despite something. "I know he isn't a big baseball fan but..." She clears her throat. "Well, I suppose Saturday meetings at IFT happen."

Harold frowns quickly but recovers before Olivia notices.

"Would have been nice for this to be a family affair."

"Home run," Will says again. "Home run!"

"Yes," Harold and Olivia say together as Harold puts Will down and they all return to their seats.

"Harold, I think you are going to need to teach me more about baseball," Olivia says as she grabs the soda from between Will and Harold.

"Yes?"

"Yes. I think I will need to pick my team."

"You are permitted to like more than one baseball team."

She glances at him with the straw between her teeth. "Is that how the true baseball fans do it?"

Harold smiles. "I think it is worthwhile to enjoy the whole sport and not just a team."

"Ah, sounds like sport philosophy. You should write a book, 'how to love the game and not a team' by Harold Wren."

Harold scoffs while Olivia laughs at her own joke. She hands the soda back and picks up the second hotdog safe in her far cup holder. The three of them watch the game quietly then, the announcer talking about batting averages.

"Thanks for this, Harold," Olivia says after a few minutes.

"Hmm?" Harold looks at her again.

"It's a great 'first' for Will to have." She rocks her head from side to side. "Uncle Harold and his first baseball game. Maybe you'll be the baseball uncle."

Harold chuckles. "Not something I'd have ever predicted." Harold looks down at Will whose attention is full on the field. Then he looks up at Olivia again. "New York vs. New York felt like a good first game."

They smile at each other as Will starts to ask questions about the bases and 'why don't they just run across' or 'why don't they mix up the order?' 

Harold thinks it would be wonderful to have Ben on his other side, Ben's daughter with them. Will and Alex wearing baseball hats, Ben could wax poetic about the nature of team sports, Harold could try to convert Ben to his favorite teams; Alex and Will could learn to play the game together, hitting and pitching and eating hotdogs while Harold and Ben picked opposing teams to win. And they could be happy.

––––––––––––––––

"Jacob has made his feelings known. We have rules as a group; rules for the island." Richard looks around the circle slowly before speaking again. "We follow Jacob for the good of the island but he also feels that we should have some say in our governance." He looks at Ben. "Say in who is our leader."

"We are putting it to a vote?" Tom asks.

"What exactly are the choices?" Bea asks. 

"Give him a chance to tell us," Colleen hisses.

Richard fixes them both with a look. "We are voting on Charles, should he remain the leader or be sent into exile."

A few people gasp; Greta and Bonnie whisper quickly; Isabel crosses her arms and frowns; Colleen and Danny only give each other a look. Whispers flow through the group and Richard does not attempt to stop them. Tom tries to catch Ben's eye as the moment stretches on. Ben watches Richard and says nothing, keeps his facial expression neutral. 

"Isn't that a bit extreme?" Colleen finally asks, loud enough for the group to hear and attend to.

"If Charles has not put the needs of the island first he does not deserve to be our leader," Pryce says harshly.

"But he has been here –"

"Time does not give him a free pass," Pryce says before Bea can continue. "I don't care if he's been here thirty years."

"And he has a child now," Greta adds, her voice obviously critical, "with an outsider, how much will he care..."

"Charles has led us for –"

"But has he led us well? When we lost Hannah –"

"And did he even care? Did he try to –"

"Charles is –"

"Charles was a good leader," Ben says and suddenly everyone else assembled on the beach falls silent. "He led for many years but his ability, his commitment has waned. He may have given everything for this island at one time but not anymore." Ben pauses as the others watch him. Ben breathes in and speaks confidently, like a leader. "Charles has fathered a child with an outsider and left the island on many occasions for his own selfish reasons. He has not put the interest of the island first. Someone like that..." 

Ben pauses with apparent reluctance. The groups watches him, no one speaking up in Charles' defense, no one feeling the need to add. Finally Ben looks at Richard at the shore line.

"Someone like that cannot be allowed to remain as leader or even part of our community. He could be a danger to the island's safety."

The others watch Ben then one by one turn back to Richard, waiting.

"Then we vote," Richard says.

As the others each cast their vote, one by one bringing their decision on a piece of paper to put into Richard's hand, Ben stands with his feet in the water. His shoes and socks are a yard behind him and his heels sink deeper into the sand with each wave. Alex is back at the barracks – a move they only made a week and a half ago after all the arguments wore Charles down. Ethan is watching her and Ben does hope he can trust the boy, though Ethan is hardly a boy any longer. 

Ben smiles to himself as the water moves the sand up and over his toes. The horizon far in the distance is only a dark blue line, no other land in sight. The sky has a few clouds and the stars are out. Ben remembers sitting on a roof with Harold at his side, charting stars that would not chart.

"Ben?"

Ben turns to see Richard standing back where Ben's shoes sit, just safe of the sea water.

"The vote is exile," Ben says. It is not a question.

"Yes."

"The submarine is already due to leave in just over a week. I think it can wait until then if Tom is fine with it."

"He already said as much."

Ben nods and walks away from the surf toward Richard. Richard watches him silently. Ben raises his eyebrows. "And?"

"Your name has been put forward as a candidate to succeed Charles."

"I see."

"The only candidate."

Ben nods. "Well then, leader it is."

Richard leans down, picks up Ben's shoes then holds them out. "Not really a surprise, is it?"

Ben smiles as he takes his shoes from Richard. "No, it's not."

"The people here think a lot of you, Ben. You've given a great deal to this island, more than many. You haven't failed us yet."

"And I won't fail, Richard."

"The people know your level of dedication and they trust you to lead us." Richard reaches out and grips Ben's shoulder. "I am here for you too, Ben."

"I understand, Richard. I am glad to do it." He glances at the dark jungle behind Richard. "This island is my life." And he does not think about the one missing piece across the sea.

Later that evening, back at the barracks after Ben tucks Alex in to bed and reads by the light of a lamp instead of a fire, something moves outside of the window. Ben puts down his book, walks to his front door and outside onto the porch. The black smoke swirls in front of the house – silent this time but just as menacing – reaching forward then pulling back again as Ben watches. It seems to be congratulating him.

––––––––––––––––

The day Charles Widmore is exiled from the island, Harold hears a faint beeping coming from the third floor of his townhouse. Harold stares at the transmitter as it continues to beep and even though he is angry, confused, afraid even, he is far more homesick and lonely than any other emotion.

"Ben?"

"Hello, Harold." Ben takes a step to the right then back again as he unnecessarily holds the headset against his ears. "How are you?"

"I'm the same," Harold says, tapping his finger on the desk.

Ben 'hmms' with a smile then drops his hand to tap a finger on the console. "Yes."

"Are you all right?" Harold asks, suddenly concerned. "Is Alex –"

"She is fine, Harold," Ben replies quickly, "and so am I."

"Good..." Harold runs a hand down his tie unconsciously. "Good."

"Harold." Ben paces away from the table again. "Things have changed here, partially because of your help."

Harold is silent for a moment. "That man at the Opera?"

"Charles, yes. We have rules on the island, as you know Harold, and those in power should be most compliant. The island needs total commitment."

Harold breathes out once and stands up in front of the desk. "What are you trying to tell me, Ben?"

"I am the new leader of the island, Harold."

"Leader..." Harold whispers.

"Yes."

"I suppose there would need to be some sort of hierarchical structure."

Ben chuckles. "Well, I'm not the last one in charge either, Harold."

Harold frowns but decides not to ask. "Is that all you called to tell me?"

Ben swallows yet keeps his face impassive as if Harold could actually see him. "Well, I wouldn't want to take up too much of your time, Harold."

"You know that was not what I meant."

"It can be difficult to cut through the self righteous condescension sometimes, Harold." 

"Stop." Harold sighs and shakes his head. "I want it to be like it was, Ben," Harold says in a rush. "I miss the way we were before."

Ben scoffs in a not wholly unkind way. "When exactly, Harold? When we were children in Oregon? When we were together on the island? When we were ripped apart?"

"Before you told me what you did in Astoria would be fine by me," Harold retorts like a snap.

"You are the one who needs to move past that," Ben snaps back. "Neither of us can change it nor would I."

They both fall silent asking themselves why they would want to hurt their twin. 

"Harold," Ben says, his voice quiet and hopeful, "please, I don't..."

"Don't want to fight," Harold finishes and shuts his eyes.

"Harold." Ben opens his eyes. "We haven't seen each other in five years. Please, come to the island. You can meet Alex. Harold, we..." Ben clenches his jaw and presses his palms into the console table. "We shouldn't be apart."

Harold leans against the desk, knows what his answer is. "Ben, I..."

"I promise, Harold," Ben says before Harold can make an excuse, "I won't try and make you stay. I just want to see my brother."

 

Harold steps down from the top of the submarine with Tom behind him and memories from twenty years ago in front of him. When Harold's feet touch the dock he feels as if he might throw up. It is dark out now, just as it was then, and just as deserted except for a figure walking down the dock toward him. A hand touches his shoulder suddenly steadying Harold who did not realize he was swaying.

"All right?" Tom asks him.

Harold only nods curtly and watches as the figure of his twin becomes clearer.

Ben stops a foot away from Harold. "Thank you, Tom." Ben does not look at Tom, however, as he walks around and away but only at Harold. Ben smiles and feels his hands tingle. "You're here."

"Yes," Harold says quickly. He can still feel bile in the back of his throat. He did not realize how visceral an experience it would be to back here on the island, on this dock with Ben. The moment is nothing like that night – no screaming, no parents – but there is fear and Harold cannot explain why.

"Harold." Ben touches Harold's arm because he feels a rising disquiet in his gut which he knows comes from Harold. Harold breathes in sharply and stares at him. "It's all right. It's just us."

Harold nods a few times and does not pull away. "Yes, of course."

Ben slides his hand down Harold's arm and Harold grips his hand. They smile, squeeze their fingers together for a long moment before they pull away.

"Come on," Ben says, gesturing down the dock. "Come meet your niece."

They walk down the dock, Harold with just one side bag slung over his shoulder, until they reach solid ground. Ben leads them even though Harold remembers the way until they near the Dharma barracks.

"You're living in..."

"Yes," Ben says, "but not that house."

"Good," Harold whispers.

They pass no one as they walk. The time is after midnight and the only lights on are occasional area lights like one would find in any suburban neighborhood. Ben leads them to one house, the same design, the same yellow paint though the porch is somewhat different. Somehow that small difference makes Harold relax; he is not returning home but somewhere new.

When Ben opens the door Tom is there. "Sent Ethan home and she is asleep." Tom looks at Harold beside Ben. "Though expect you'll be waking her up?"

Ben smiles. "Thank you, Tom. Good night."

Tom nods then looks at Harold. "Good to meet you."

Harold only nods back, unsure what he should say.

Tom swaps places with the two of them and closes the door behind them as he goes. Harold looks around the house. The set up is different than their parents house, far more bookshelves for one though they are mostly empty.

"We only moved in recently," Ben says to Harold's unasked questions. "So there is still a lot to do." He waves at the bookshelves. "A lot to fill, for example."

Harold chuckles. "I should have brought you some."

"You still can." Ben smiles and takes Harold's bag from him. "Sit down, let me get Alex."

Harold sits, eyes coasting around the room, just part of the kitchen visible. The color of the tiles is red unlike when they grew up which instantly makes Harold more comfortable.

In the back room, Ben pets Alex's hair once, her eyes fluttering not fully asleep. He picks her up out of bed, draped against his shoulder. "I have someone for you to meet, Alex."

When Ben comes down the hall with Alex in his arms, Harold instantly stands up to meet them at the break in the hall. He smiles, tries to see her face under all the hair.

"Alex," Ben jostles her gently with his shoulder and pulls her hair back from her face. "Wake up, Alex."

She makes a tired noise and turns her face away into Ben's neck, hiding from the light. Ben and Harold laugh quietly at the same time. Harold reaches out and pushes Alex's hair away from her face again. She opens her eyes and blinks at him.

"Daddy?"

Harold cannot breathe for a moment until Ben says, "I'm here, Alex."

She shifts and looks up at Ben, perhaps just noticing she is being carried. "Daddy?"

"Yes." Ben says then looks at Harold. "This is daddy's brother, your Uncle Harold."

She sits up a little in Ben's arms, interested now. She looks at Harold then back to Ben; she looks back and forth twice more before she purses out her lips. "You have glasses."

Harold laughs and grins. "I do."

"Daddy has glasses too, honey." Ben points at his head. "When he reads, you remember."

Alex purses her lips more and looks at Harold again. "You look the same as daddy."

Ben and Harold look up at each other as if they did not know, as if it was somehow a surprise. "Yes," they say together then look back at Alex, "we do."

She giggles at their synchronization which quickly turns into a yawn. Harold runs a hand over her hair as she lays her head back down against Ben's chest.

"Yes, we should put you back to bed," Ben says with a glance at Harold.

Harold nods then looks at Alex again. "I'm so glad to have met you, Alex."

"Play..." she mumbles as her eyes closed. "Play with..."

"Of course," Harold replies as Ben turns away back down the hall.

With Alex asleep again in bed, Ben and Harold sit side by side in wooden chairs at the small dining room table. Ben does not have a couch or cushioned chairs yet and Ben is still unsure if he wants them at all – a couch reminds him of their father, of drunken nights which should not be revisited.

"She's wonderful, Ben," Harold says. He rubs a hand over the table. "Who is her mother?"

Ben touches the finger tips of his hands together. "Alex is adopted." And he says no more.

"So," Harold glances around the house before looking back to Ben. "Back in the barracks and now the leader?"

"I wouldn't say it quite so smoothly but in the end, yes. The houses were here so why not use them."

Harold nods. "Where exactly were you before, in the jungle?"

Ben chuckles. "It doesn't matter now. We are here and things are going to change for the better."

"Because you are in charge?"

Ben keeps his mouth a straight line even though Harold sees he wants to frown. "Someone needs to lead and I am not unqualified."

"I see."

"You don't."

Harold does not bother to guard his expression – and just why does Ben feel he needs to in front of Harold – and he frowns. "I see that being in charge entrenches you more on the island."

"It's my home, Harold, you know that."

"But Alex..."

"It is her home too; she was born here. Why should she leave, why should either of us?"

Harold wants to say 'for me,' but he does not have to because Ben reads it on his face. They look away from each other at the same time thinking the same thoughts – I miss you, stay with me.

"And how is New York?" Ben asks, turning back as Harold does. "Have you reached the billions yet?"

"You know that is not why," Harold says heavily. "You know computers are what I love just as you love this island."

Ben cocks his head. "But only one of us is padding our bank account through their devotion."

"And only one of us is killing," Harold retorts harshly.

Ben just stares at Harold. Ben wants to reply – to justify – and Harold wants to apologize. They both breathe out audibly and reflexively reach for each other across the table. Neither of them needs to say, 'I don't want to fight,' 'I'm sorry.'

"Just trust me," Ben says.

"You can't lie to me," Harold replies.

They smile again, Ben squeezes Harold's hand and Harold places his other hand on top of theirs. Harold is not afraid and Ben is not resentful.

"I can't let you stay long," Ben says as he completes the stack with his other hand on top. Harold hangs on 'let you stay' and says nothing. "You will need to leave early in the morning. Tom is the only one who knows you are here."

"Is Tom..."

"I can trust him," Ben answers. "But we have rules, as you know, and strictly speaking you should not be here. Everyone on this island has sacrificed to be here, sacrificed for the island."

"Did you sacrifice me?" Harold asks quietly.

Ben smiles in a fond way and does not answer. "As the leader I must set an example or..." his smile shifts. "At least not be seen to err."

"So I can't be here."

"I'm sorry."

"Then don't waste time telling me why," Harold insists – quite unlike him to remove the why. "Tell me more about Alex."

Ben smiles and nods.

They talk through the night as they sit side by side, pace around the house. Ben chronicles Alex's first steps, first words and Harold names books to fill the shelves. They fill in gaps from long ago – what happened to mom? Where is Annie? They talk about nothing – birds and fields and opera and sailing. Harold asks Ben about his lack of glasses while Ben asks Harold about his ties. They are together and happy until the sun rises and Tom knocks on the door.

"I'm sorry," Harold says at the end of the dock. "I don't know if I'm..." He clears his throat. "About what you did."

Ben keeps his face impassive and only nods. "I'm not going to apologize."

"I know," Harold says quickly. "I wasn't here so I have no right –"

"You don't."

Harold gives Ben a look and takes a deep breath. "But maybe this is a new start?"

"I hope so," Ben replies.

Then they are in each other's arms, hugging hard and tight and fearful because they both know these are just words and an ocean apart is a hard thing to cross. When they let go, Harold watches Ben from the top of the submarine and Ben holds up a hand to wave goodbye. It is nothing like that night but every time they say good bye feels like somehow they are reliving that moment.

Harold thinks about his home of tall buildings, cars, and concrete nothing at all like Ben as the sedative on the submarine kicks in and Ben thinks about his home of trees, hills and the ocean waves nothing at all like Harold as he passes out in his chair at his desk.

––––––––––––––––

In New York City, Nathan and Olivia start to fight, half honest words about late nights or missed appointments. Harold puts Will to bed and reads him Robison Caruso until he falls asleep.

––––––––––––––––

On the island, Richard brings Ben notes from Jacob, things he needs to do, things he needs to know – a wooden wheel housed in ice. Ben understands the full meaning of ‘everyone answers to someone.’

––––––––––––––––

The IFT firewalls are nearly breached by an enterprising hacker. The next day Harold hires ‘Harold Dove’ to a coding position in the IT department. Nathan calls Harold’s new cubicle phone before the end of the week. When Nathan uses the words ‘paranoid’ and ‘control freak,’ Harold hangs up on him.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sets up a work structure for his people on the island, no more campfires and tents, but use of the Dharma stations and real society instead of nomadic life. He ensures permanent staffing of The Looking Glass, Mikhail at The Flame, so they have contact with the outside. They cannot be unprepared for any threats; including Charles Widmore.

––––––––––––––––

Harold hacks into the DOD just because he can on a Saturday afternoon. It takes him about half an hour. By Sunday he is coding a new virus detection software. 

“And instead of having a set time or manual execution of the program, we can have the detection be continuous so viruses are located in real time. Less time for damage to be done. And…” Harold types faster than he speaks. “And it tracks remote access to your computer so…”

Nathan’s voice sounds vaguely concerned over the phone line. “What government agency did you hack, Harold?” 

IFT adds the program to their line a month later and Harold wants to call it ‘Defense,’ just for fun; Nathan is only slightly less amused.

“I thought your days of ‘treason and sedition’ were a thing of your youthful indiscretion past?”

Harold taps his pencil against his computer monitor. “Well, that’s why I don’t get caught anymore.”

––––––––––––––––

Leah dies four months into her pregnancy and none of them can explain why, not even Jacob despite Ben pressing Richard to ask, just like before. 

“Jacob has to know something, Richard!” Ben hisses.

“He hasn’t told me.”

Rick breathes heavily in a corner of the stark operating room, shrugging off any attempts at consolation, obviously struggling not to sob. 

“I’ve tried everything I can think of,” Diane says. “Nothing remarkable in her blood or that I can find with the fetus.”

“So what exactly is the cause of death?” Ben asks again.

“I am telling you,” Diane insists. “I don’t know.”

Richard and Ben travel to the mainland to find a solution, to find something because twice is a pattern they cannot afford to continue. If Jacob cannot help directly then Ben will find a way.

In the medical consultant’s office, Ben resists the urge to pull at his tie. He has not worn one in years, never on the island and probably not since he was a child. Richard looks as composed in a tie as he does without, still just a step on the other side of present and real even off the island. As they wait, Ben stares at the reception’s telephone but does not pick it up to call anyone.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sleeps alone, works on his computer during the day, buys another loft for Harold Crane and a plane for Harold Gull; counts years passing and dreams about Ben on his hidden island far away.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sleeps alone, builds a hidden addition onto his house, slowly brings new recruits from Jacob's list to the island, and teaches Alex Latin; counts years passing and dreams about Harold in a crowded city far away.

––––––––––––––––

Harold asks Nathan about Olivia after Harold puts Will to bed again, the two of them reading Treasure Island by flashlight while Nathan and Olivia fight in loud whispers down the hall. When Harold puts the book back on the shelf, flashlight in the side table drawer and walks to the bedroom door, Will’s voice suddenly stops him.

“Uncle Harold?”

“Will?” Harold turns around in the doorway.

“You won’t leave me, will you?”

Harold stares at Will for a moment, Will’s face only half seen by the light coming from the door. “I promise,” Harold replies and shuts the door.

“Nathan.”

Nathan turns and looks back at Harold from the window overlooking the illuminated streets of New York City. Olivia is nowhere to be seen. “Harold.”

“What is going on with Olivia?”

Nathan’s head tilts and he looks down at the liquid in his glass, swirling it around. “Going on?”

“You’ve had a few problems but you’ve always been happy. Lately you’re…” Harold waves a hand. “I don’t know what but something –”

“It’s fine, Harold,” Nathan interrupts him. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

“I think maybe I do.”

Nathan scoffs and takes a sip of his drink. “It’s a two person marriage, Harold, but thank you for wanting to insert yourself.”

Harold frowns deeply. “There is something wrong enough that it is starting to affect your son.” Nathan’s head jerks up. “Or have you not noticed how many times I've put him to bed at night and not either of you?”

Nathan scoffs and downs the last of his drink. “I’ve already had one fight tonight.”

“I’m asking you because of Will, Nathan. He is –”

“I don’t need to hear it from you too, Harold. I have a wife already!”

Harold’s expression is unforgiving. “Whatever it is causing this… whatever you’ve done.” Nathan scoffs but Harold does not desist. “Give up on dishonesty, Nathan. You're not good at it.”

Nathan scowls back at Harold. “Not like you.”

––––––––––––––––

Sasha murders one of their own, quiet Daniel with the almond eyes.

Ben frowns at the piece of paper in his hand. “And why exactly did Sasha believe Daniel deserving of a stabbing?”

Isabel raises her eyebrows. “Apparently she was not interested in his persistent advances. ‘Had enough’ I believe were her words.”

Ben flips down the top of the paper and looks up at Isabel over it. “She stabbed him because he liked her?”

“I would imagine sex was his end game.”

Ben resists rolling his eyes and only sighs instead. “Isn’t it always?” Ben flips the paper up again to finish reading the report. “And we even have a witness so no ‘he said, she said.’”

“Certainly not when the ‘he’ is dead.”

Ben looks up at Isabel again. She does not look amused despite the jesting phrasing of her words. Ben purses his lips and puts the paper down. “Is there any evidence that his interest went beyond…” Ben folds his hands together. “Beyond what would be proper?”

“Daniel did not try to rape her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Always the frank one Isabel,” Ben says with a slight frown.

She cocks her head to the side. “I see no reason not to be.” She pulls her hands from behind her back and folds them together in front of her. She nods curtly. “I shall put it to a trial.”

She turns on her heel and walks out without Ben needing to confirm her decision. He watches her go then stares at the piece of paper again. It is the first real murder since Ben has become leader, since he has lived with his people.

“The verdict is guilty,” Isabel tells Ben several hours later.

Ben nods and turns away. “Execute her.”

––––––––––––––––

Harold finds a first addition copy, leather bound, of The Ghost in the Machine by Arthur Koestler in London. He pays fifty pounds for it and remembers when he was nine reading 2001: A Space Odyssey. He wonders if it shows a trend in his own tendency toward self–destruction or is that Ben?

––––––––––––––––

Ben visits the mainland, checks into the old Dharma offices to ensure nothing from the past will come back. Then he goes to Tunisia and very specific GPS coordinates. Ben knows it is best to always be prepared. Harold would approve.

––––––––––––––––

Ben calls Harold from The Flame – usual duties rearranged – and tells Harold about Alex, about how much she keeps growing, about new books he has acquired, about practicing Chess, about how he cooks now. He says little about the island or his people or their time again apart.

Harold calls Ben from his third floor – a house only sometimes used – and tells Ben about Nathan, about how Will keeps growing, about his new loft, about first edition books, about baseball. He says little about New York City or IFT or their time again apart.

––––––––––––––––

Harold picks Nathan up in Manhattan, drunk and half delirious. He stays at Harold’s apartment for the next two days and Olivia does not call to find him.

“I’ll be fine; It’ll all be fine, Harold,” Nathan tells him over coffee in Harold’s kitchen. “I promise.”

––––––––––––––––

Two more pregnant women die, one after the other. Ethan tries his best, young and eager and as good a doctor as he can be but it is not enough.

“What does Jacob think about this, Richard, anything? You cannot tell me he approves?”

And Richard does not answer Ben. Instead he hands Ben a file on a Dr. Juliet Burke.

––––––––––––––––

Harold travels to Italy for the first time – visits the Uffizi gallery in Florence, drinks wine in Chianti, climbs to the top of the Torre del Mangia in Siena, meets Gianni in Rome to buy his first three piece, hand tailored suit – and falls in love with another country beyond New York City.

––––––––––––––––

Ben purchases art during his rare trips on the mainland – African masks for the spirit of the island, black and white prints of hot air balloons for the impossible turned possible, a large painting of a woman which looks too much like Annie would in his mind to leave behind – and his house becomes a shrine to the man he wants to be.

––––––––––––––––

Y2K. Harold finds it hilarious. As if the world would come crashing down because coding has to update. Harold cannot believe how far they have come, how far technology has come in his lifetime.

His lifetime without Ben beside him.

––––––––––––––––

Ben’s daughter is a teenager now. The eye rolls are endless and sometimes Ben wonders why he spared her life. He cannot believe how far his world has come, how he is a leader and a father alone.

His life alone without Harold beside him.

––––––––––––––––

Will Ingram tells Harold one day as they drive along a busy New York street, “I’m glad I have you for an uncle, Harold.”

Harold laughs, thinks only of childish commentary because Will is still five in his mind. “Oh yes, I am very exciting.”

“No, really.” Harold glances over from where he watches the road at the seriousness in Will’s tone. Will stares back at him. “I don’t think mom or dad could have raised me without you.” 

Harold turns back to the road with a forced smile. “Your father and mother have done a great job raising you, look how well you’ve turned out.”

“But they haven’t exactly done it alone. I mean,” he scoffs in the way only a soon-to-be teenager can, “you’re the one driving me home from school right now. Though you know I could easily take the subway if they would –”

“You shouldn’t take the subway alone, Will.”

“I’m twelve, not four.”

Harold shoots him a look as they come to a stop light. “Twelve is not forty either.”

Will rolls his eyes. “What, is that the subway age requirement?”

“For you.”

Will sighs with every year he has. “You know you’re proving my point.”

“You know you argue like your mother?” Will’s mouth drops open in horror. Harold grins at him in amusement and presses his foot down on the gas pedal as the light turns green. “I should add, that is not a negative, Will. Your mother is an excellent lawyer.”

Will huffs. “Right, because I want to be a lawyer.”

Harold only smiles and turns left to avoid a set of ill–timed traffic lights through the next few cross streets.

“Why don’t you have kids, Uncle Harold?” Will asks after a few moments of silence.

Harold chuckles. “Uh… well, I’m not married.”

“Don’t have to be married to have kids.”

“How progressive of you.”

“Just, isn’t that what everyone ends up doing? Having kids?”

Harold glances at Will again. “Well, I have you.”

Will laughs once and Harold sees him shifting around in his seat so he is facing Harold more. “And you’re always going to be there, right? I mean… I’ll always have you, Uncle Harold, as like… my other dad?”

Harold frowns and looks at Will, trying to keep one eye on the road. “What are you talking about?” Will’s eyes tick down to the floor of the car, two teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “Will, what is it?”

“Mom and dad are going to get divorced someday, aren’t they?” Will’s gaze lifts up again. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll lose you too?”

“Will,” Harold says sharply. “Your parents do fight on occasion but they are not getting divorced.”

“They will.” Will’s voice is bitter, decided, as he hunches down against the passenger side door. “That’s what parents who fight do.”

“Will –”

“But even when they do… and if dad moves out and mom works till midnight all the time or whatever they do, I will have you; you’ll always be there because you always were. I remember, Uncle Harold, when you kept reading to me so I wouldn’t hear them or….” Will breathes in audibly. “At least I’ll have you.”

Harold swallows hard, stares out at the road with his hands tight on the wheel and he cannot counter Will’s speech. He only says, “Yes, Will, you’ll have me.”

When Harold is home again – alone in the house he uses as Harold Finch – he sits in front of his radio transmitter, his telephone to the island. He stares at the dark dials, wants to tell Ben that somehow Harold has a son that is not his own, that his friend might be in trouble, that his life is fulfilling but also not, that he works hard and he is rich and he is innovative and maybe a computer genius. Harold wants to tell Ben how much he misses Ben because he is not right here, not right beside Harold where he can see everything Harold sees. 

Harold wants to talk to his twin. Instead he stands up and walks away. 

––––––––––––––––

Dr. Juliet Burke arrives on his island with the sun at her back; a fertility doctor who may be able to save them. When she steps out of the submarine, timid and intimidated, Ben thinks she surpasses all the accolades and files he has read about her.

“Hello, Dr. Burke. My name is Benjamin Linus.” Ben thinks for a moment that maybe he has a thing for blonds as he looks at her and wouldn’t that just be something Freudian? “I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

She stares at him for a moment, her eyes coasting up to take in the island then back to him again. He wonders what she sees.

Ben holds out his hand to help her down from the submarine. “Why don’t I show you around?”

She takes his hand with a small smile. “Thank you.” 

She steps down onto the dock and walks alongside Ben, her eyes still drawing up to the island’s peak and the lush foliage.

“So, I can show you around our barracks, let you relax for a little before we go over to The Hydra to see where you’ll be working.”

“Hydra?”

“Oh,” Ben chuckles as if the use of the name was an unintentional intimacy. “We have various stations in use around the island. The Hydra is one of them.”

“Interesting name.”

Ben chuckles. “I cannot claim knowledge of why the stations are named how they are.”

Juliet turns to look at him with a frown. “Didn’t your group set them up?”

Ben glances at her then back to the island. “Not exactly.” He sees her face shift in confusion but Ben pushes on before she can question more. “There will be a day or two of acclimating you to what we do here on the island, our policies. We want to get you up to speed as quickly as possible so you can get to work.”

She nods but says nothing as they near the end of the dock.

“I cannot thank you enough for accepting our offer,” Ben says as he turns his head toward Juliet. “We have been at a complete loss.” The sun glints in her hair, illuminating then moving on, back and forth like a wave over her head. It is so beautiful. Ben smiles as she looks at him, her expression embarrassed and modest at once. “With the work you have already done, I know you are going to be a big help with fixing our problem here.”

She chuckles in a polite way and Ben thinks that many lines of Shakespeare would apply to her. “I will do the best I can, Mr. Linus.”

“Ben, Please." He smiles. "Fortunately for us, your best goes quite a long way.”

Juliet smiles, full of pride for just a moment – Ben decides right then he has to see that smile again – before she lapses back into polite and controlled. “I hope so.” She shrugs. “I’ve got six months, right? I guess we’ll see how far I can get.”

“Of course,” Ben says. He turns as he sees motion in his peripheral vision. Colleen and Danny stand a few yards away waiting. Ben nods at them then turns back to Juliet. “Well, I’ll let Colleen take care of you and get you settled for the time being.”

“Thank you.” Then she walks away from him toward Colleen and Danny.

As the three of them turn away, no eyes on him, Ben genuinely smiles.

When Ben is home again – in his house alone, Alex somewhere else – he thinks about driving to The Flame. He wants to tell Harold about Juliet, this new woman who is beautiful and smart and can maybe save them from such senseless loss of life. Ben wants to tell Harold the island is not what Harold thought, that they are peaceful and a community and a cause and that Ben is a leader and his life is fulfilling but also not. Ben wants to tell Harold how much he misses him because Harold is not right here, not right beside Ben where he can see everything Ben sees. 

Ben wants to talk to his twin. Instead he walks to his desk to work.

––––––––––––––––

Harold looks up from his computer late in the evening as Nathan walks through his office door. 

“I’ve been trying to call you all day,” Nathan says.

“I turned off my phone,” Harold says with a quick wave of his hand. “I’ve been working on a…” Then he sees Nathan’s face, drawn, ashen, like someone has died and insanely Harold worries it is Ben. “What’s wrong?”

“Something’s happened, Harold,” Nathan says.

Harold raises his eyebrows. “Happened?” 

Harold stands up as Nathan slowly walks across the office to Harold’s TV and turns it on.

Harold’s frown deepens as he watches the screen. “Was it a plane?”


	8. From 911 to Flight 815

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Destiny has an interesting point of view._
> 
> [Harold begins to build the Machine while Ben loses his grip on leadership of the Island, and a certain plane crashes]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there is some technology fudging here again. I'm not a genius like Harold. Along with some changes to canon that I feel fit this reality. I hope you like it! And if you are keeping with this novella you have my warmest thanks.

Juliet sits down in the chair across from Ben’s desk.

“I’ve finally finished reviewing all the files of the past pregnancies and I have started the file on the woman who is currently pregnant.”

Ben nods and picks up his coffee mug. “Anything jump out at you?”

Juliet shakes her head absently, eyes gazing across the room at nothing.

“Juliet?”

Her eyes snap back suddenly. “Sorry, no, not yet.” She clears her throat and smiles tightly. “I’m wondering if she has any past exams before the pregnancy I could look at?”

“Of course.” Ben stands up, coffee in hand, and walks over to the one set of filing cabinets against the wall. “Though it may not be here. There could be something over at the…” Ben trails off as he looks back at Juliet. She is staring off into space again, finger tips over her lips.

Ben frowns. “Juliet, is something wrong?”

“What?” She looks at him again.

“You seem to be…” He waves a hand in the air, “elsewhere.”

“Oh.” She smiles and drops her hand. “Sorry, I just heard about what happened from Makahil, those planes crashing into the Twin Towers in New York.” She blows out a breath. “I don’t really have family there or friends but…” She huffs. “It’s just unbelievable –”

Ben’s coffee mug shatters on the floor, making Juliet jump in surprise, as Ben suddenly grips her tightly by the arm.

“Jesus, Ben!” She gasps.

Ben stares at her, almost shaking. “What did you just say?”

 

Two days later, on September thirteenth, Ben pounds on Harold’s townhouse door. “Harold? Harold!” He waits ten seconds then knocks hard again. “Harold, open the door! Harold!” His heart rate could not be faster if he was running. Ben slams his hand flat against the wood. “Harold, please!”

Then the door flies open and Harold pulls Ben inside by his collar. The door slams shut behind Ben, completely forgotten, as they cling on to each other.

“I’m fine, I’m alive, I’m fine,” Harold says, arms tight around a gasping Ben.

“Yes.” Ben pulls in a sharp breath. “You’re alive.”

“You knew I was alive.”

“I know.”

“You would have felt…”

Ben shakes his head against Harold’s shoulder. “We don’t know that; it’s not always certain.”

“You knew I was alive,” Harold repeats with a squeeze.

Ben pulls away enough to see Harold’s face. “Alive is not enough!”

“It’s all right,” Harold says running a hand over Ben’s hair. “I’m all right. I’m fine. I wasn’t anywhere near the towers.”

Ben breathes in sharply. “You could have been.”

“I’m fine.” Harold smiles in the most reassuring way then pulls Ben back into the hug. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”

They stand for another minute just holding onto each other. When they pull apart, they both breathe out slowly. Harold smiles reassuringly and rubs his hand up and down Ben’s upper arm for a moment. Ben glances behind Harold at the book shelf – mostly classic science fiction and some computer texts – then looks back to Harold with a quick nod. Harold turns Ben by his arm and walks him over to the brown couch where they both sit.

“So…”Harold says without a next step because there has been a disaster but everything is also fine and Ben is here in Harold’s house with him.

“So.” Ben’s eyes coast around Harold’s face – not a mark or unusual line. “You’re not hurt.”

“I think we covered that.”

“We did and…” Ben clears his throat. “Your friend? His family?”

Harold smiles a little. “Also fine.”

“Good.”

They sit awkwardly, neither sure what to say now that they have passed the initial stage of comfort and relief. Their conversations of late have either been years of catch up or terse confrontations. 

“Would you like some coffee?” Harold finally asks.

Ben smiles. “Yes, thank you, Harold.”

They stand up together and weave around the couch, down the hallway and back into Harold’s kitchen. Ben glances at the dark wood cabinets, black marble counter tops, clean metal stove and wonders just how often Harold actually cooks at this house; perhaps he prefers one of his apartments.

“I have cream and sugar,” Harold says with a gesture to the refrigerator. He opens the freezer and pulls out a small container of ground coffee. “I don’t usually drink coffee myself but I keep some…”

“On hand for me?” Ben finishes with a smile.

Harold shrugs. “Well, you’re not my only coffee drinking guest.”

“Do you have a lot of guests here?”

Harold purses his lips but is not annoyed at what others might view as a rebuke. “Not really.”

Harold slides his French press away from a row of tea pots and spoons in some coffee. He picks up his kettle from the stove, fills it with water from the tap then places it back onto a front eye, flicking it on. Ben watches his movements and thinks of himself at home when he acquiesces to making Alex coffee in the morning. Harold turns back around and leans against the counter with his hands bent over the edge. Ben leans back against the pantry closet door behind him in an unconscious mirror of his twin.

“I’m glad you came,” Harold says.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I knew you would.”

Ben nods. “Good.” Then he tilts his head. “Does your gover… do they know exactly what happened with these errant planes?”

“You don’t really care, Ben.”

Ben raises his eyebrows but Harold is not wrong. “I care about you, Harold, and you live in this city.”

Harold nods because that he believes. “Yes, and something has to be done.”

Ben frowns slightly because he knows that tone. “And you are going to do it?”

Harold purses his lips – thinks of Nathan sitting beside him and the feeling between them that if they do not act then someone else will, someone already has, and why be a genius if not for the greater good? To Ben he says, “We will see.”

Ben watches Harold for a moment then clicks his tongue. “Fine. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Harold opens his mouth to retort then just sighs instead. Before either of them can speak further, however, the kettle on the stove begins to whistle. Harold rotates in place and turns off the burner. He picks up the kettle, pours water into the French press then replaces the plunger.

“I actually have something for you,” Harold says as he puts the kettle back onto a cool burner of the stove.

“Oh?” Ben remarks as he stands up straight again.

Harold nods and walks past Ben back down the hallway toward the living room. He pulls open a drawer in the front hall table and takes out the long box inside, bringing it back to the kitchen. 

Harold holds out the box to Ben. “It is a bit heavy.”

Ben’s brow furrows in confused curiosity. He holds the box close to his chest as he eases off the box top. Inside the box, fitted into Styrofoam, is a short, thin black rod. Ben recognizes it as a telescopic baton. He looks up sharply at Harold.

Harold smiles in a thin line then gestures at the instrument. “There are instructions underneath.”

Ben chuckles once as he pulls the baton out of the Styrofoam and places the box to the side on the counter. “How unlike you Harold. A weapon?”

“I am quite capable of understanding the need for defense of one’s person.” He pauses. “Or people.”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “Speaking from a desire of your own, New York perhaps?”

Harold purses his lips and glances away. “Or more.”

“How noble.” Ben flicks the baton sharply with his wrist so the end extends. “Elegant.”

“And non-lethal.”

Ben chuckles again. “I'm sure that depends on how one uses it.”

Harold glares. “Better than some methods.”

Ben looks at Harold sharply – Harold’s inference plain. Ben’s anger rises for a moment then he smiles and chooses poignant levity. “Certainly better than shooting someone, depending on the situation.”

“Have you shot someone?” Harold asks bluntly with alarm.

Ben stares at Harold then pushes the baton closed again. “Yes, Harold, hundreds. I line some people up every morning for target practice.”

“That's not funny, Ben.”

“Believe me, Harold, I did not take your question as a joke.”

“I…” Harold swallows a sharper retort feeling the familiar line of old arguments. “I have this feeling now, what with what has happened, a desire to keep those who are close to me safe. To keep everyone safe.” Ben only looks at him, baton still in hand. Harold breathes in deeply. “I cannot keep you safe on the island.”

“I have not needed your help in keeping myself safe before, Harold,” Ben says, his words chiding but his tone only flat.

“But you should have had.” Harold hisses sharply. “You have never been safe on that island.” 

“And yet here I am, without your assistance.”

“Can’t you just take the gesture for what it is?” Harold snaps then eases. “I want you to be safe or at least safer in some way and this is…” Harold sighs heavily. “It is what I thought of. Perhaps it was foolish.”

“No, Harold.” Ben slides the baton into an inner pocket of his jacket. “It wasn’t foolish.”

Harold smiles at Ben’s restraint as Ben thinks about Harold’s need for control.

Then Harold turns back to the French press on the counter. He depresses the plunger as he reaches up into a cabinet with his other hand. He pulls out a brown mug with a sandstone appearance and pours in the coffee from the French press. He slides a white ceramic jar next to the mug then crosses to the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of milk.

Harold holds out the milk to Ben. “I’m afraid this is one thing I don’t know about you, Ben.”

Ben smiles as he takes the milk, adding it and some sugar from the jar to his coffee. He picks up his mug and leans against the counter in the space Harold used to be. Harold leans back against the pantry.

“Are you staying?” Harold asks. “At least for a little?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Yes.” 

“Then I will.” 

––––––––––––––––

Back on the island, Ben, Juliet and Ethan meet at The Staff. Ethan goes over what he has looked into with the past deaths thus far. 

“We have done a lot of blood work as you can imagine,” Ethan says.

“But you only have a small sample,” Juliet starts.

“We are looking into volunteers to widen that,” Ben says quickly.

Juliet shoots him a look – suspicious or confused or perhaps he simply does not know her well enough yet.

Juliet proposes ideas, they discuss treatment options while Ben mostly listens impassively – he keeps thinking about New York City. Juliet gives him looks throughout their meeting, deeper and personal, and Ben knows she wants to ask about their last meeting, about why he so violently cared. She does not ask.

At home Ben flicks the baton open and closed, over and over. 

––––––––––––––––

Harold stands on an empty floor of the IFT building. There are some wires hanging from the ceiling, a pair of desks side by side a few feet from the long line of windows across from him. Harold pulls his phone of his pocket even though he knows there are no voicemails. Before his eyes he sees code – not usual code, nothing he has considered before – it is a new idea, unique and waiting to be born.

“One dollar.”

Harold turns at Nathan’s voice. “One dollar?”

“That is how much we will be paid to build a secret surveillance system for the United States government.” Nathan purses his lips with amusement as he walks toward Harold. “You should have seen the look on their faces. It is a genius idea to retain control.”

“It was your idea, Nathan.”

Nathan grins more. “I have my moments.” He glances around the floor then back to Harold. “And with IFT mostly dissolved looks like we are set. Ready to create the most ambitious project of your life?”

At home, Harold writes code ideas in long form at his kitchen counter while the mug Ben used sits unwashed near the wall.

––––––––––––––––

“This is Henrietta.” Ben gestures to Henrietta at the opposite side of the table. “Sarah and Sabine.” Juliet seated beside Ben smiles and nods at each one. Ben continues, “As you can likely tell, Sarah is already several months along.”

“Thank you, Ben, I know I’m getting fat.”

“Not fat,” Henrietta says and makes a circular gesture with her hands, “round, like bread, because you have a bun in the oven.”

Sabine laughs quietly and shakes her head. Sarah just glares halfheartedly at Henrietta. Juliet smiles at Henrietta and makes a note – _psychological state good_ – on one of the three clipboards in front of her.

“Our volunteers,” Ben says, finishing his thought from before the pregnancy humor.

“I see some regular health examinations from Ethan in all your files,” Juliet says, half to her papers and half to the women. “Sarah, I’d like to do my own examination of you first.”

“Great,” Sarah says, touching her belly. “I think it’s going to be a boy.”

Juliet looks up at that, her pen stilling. She smiles slowly. “Is it a boy what you want?”

Sarah’s hand rubs absently over her belly as her expression softens. “I would be happy either way but… I don’t know, I had brothers. I suppose I know what to expect with a boy.” She laughs airily. “As much as any new mother can know what to expect at least.”

Juliet smiles wide and Ben finds himself staring at her. “Well let’s cross our fingers for a boy then.” She tilts her head and the light catches her hair. “I take it from what you said that you haven’t been pregnant before?”

Sarah shakes her head. “No.”

Juliet glances up at the other women. “Henrietta? Sabine?”

They both shake their heads and Juliet nods. “So, no past difficulties we are aware of…. Though…” She clears her throat, glances at Ben hesitantly. “Though I can get a more detailed history from each of you in private.”

“I think you should be able to get a basic history now, Juliet,” Ben interrupts. He looks at Sabine and Henrietta. “They are volunteering after all.”

“I…” She gives Ben a quick look that may be disapproval. “I don’t usually…”

“They volunteered,” Ben repeats. “It is for the good of the….” Ben pauses before the word ‘island.’ “The project.”

Henrietta shoots him a look but says nothing. Juliet watches Ben and still appears unconvinced. Ben looks back at her, smiles – he knows what is best. 

“We want to help,” Sabine says, breaking the moment. Juliet turns to her as she speaks. “We have lost some friends already. We want to build our community here.” She glances at Ben quickly. He nods almost imperceptibly. Her eyes tick back to Juliet and her voice lowers. “And we can’t do that if pregnancy kills us instead.”

Juliet’s expression of doubt breaks into, what Ben is starting to recognize as, her doctor gaze. “And that’s why I’m here.”

All three of the women across from Ben and Juliet smile at once.

“So, I would love to get a history of your mothers, any other women in your family in case there is some sort of hereditary hiccup we should know about.” Juliet smiles again, clicks her pen closed then open again once. “I would also like to speak to your partners because it is possible the issue is not with the women but with the men.”

Henrietta snickers. Sarah starts to say something about hoping it is not a problem on both sides while Henrietta jokes about shooting toxic darts and Sabine looks genuinely concerned. Ben, however, keeps watching Juliet. 

He knows he should be paying attention to the discussion but he thinks about Juliet’s hair instead. He has read books before which try to be artful, to describe the beauty of a women by comparing her to stars or flowers or – even as Ben is doing – to rays of the sun. Her hair was yellow like sunlight or her hair was yellow like daylilies or honey or straw even. Why do they pick pieces of the world to say a woman is blond? If a woman is like sunlight does that make her beautiful? Cannot Juliet simply be beautiful because she is? 

“And, Ben, we will need more supplies.”

Ben smiles again as Juliet looks at him, does not miss a beat. “Make me a list.”

Juliet asks about other issues with Sarah, morning sickness, insomnia. Ben watches the curve of her neck out of the side of his eye – he cannot keep staring at her, not in his position. She is beautiful, of course, but Ben is in charge and she would be a weakness. Ben breathes in and out slowly through his nose. He concentrates on the conversation, writes a note on his pad about supplies.

“I had three younger brothers,” Sarah says. “No fertility problem in my family.”

“The problem, as we have mentioned Juliet, is not in the getting pregnant but afterward,” Ben adds.

Juliet nods. “Which is a problem many women have but it is unusual for this to be systemic in a location.”

“Like a plague,” Sabine whispers.

“It is not a plague, Sabine,” Juliet says with sudden confidence. “There is simply a cause we have not found yet.”

Ben wonders if Juliet reminds him of Annie. Would Annie have grown up to have this combination of self-doubt and shyness occasionally eclipsed by the steadfast assurance of a doctor? Perhaps it is something even more psychological; she is blond like his mother. Ben huffs at himself.

“I have to mention,” Juliet says as she sits up straight in her seat and turns to Ben. “If the cause is environmental then it would be best for everyone to simply leave this island.”

“No,” Sabine, Henrietta and Sarah all say at once. 

Juliet jerks her head toward them in surprise.

“If the cause is environmental,” Ben explains so Juliet looks back to him, “we will figure out a way to fix it. Leaving is not an option.”

Perhaps Juliet reminds Ben a little of Harold as well.

––––––––––––––––

It is New Year’s Eve and Harold is creating something new.

“I have to say I am impressed by the various ways our machine has tried to trick us,” Nathan said to Harold hours ago as he rubbed his eyes. “It has lied, cheated. Didn’t it even bribe you?”

“Iteration number thirty-seven tried to change a learning exercise into a debate about the merits of its ability to alter the stock market.”

“How would it even know about the stock market so quickly?”

Harold shook his head as he typed. “Unprecedented power.” He started to code a function within this iteration for regulated coding expansion – no more surprises from within. “That is why we must have checks. We are building a machine with the standard logic a machine possesses. We are the ones that must teach it how to interpret what is right. We need to put checks in place so it can learn and not just logic.”

“Checks and balances,” Nathan said with another trade mark grin. “How like the government.”

Now Harold sits in front of his computer alone. He has four monitors in front of him and five servers behind him. He has no idea if it is actually 2002 now. It does not really matter.

“Okay, let’s see if we can compare.”

Harold has four different versions of the machine running on the system – versions thirty-nine through forty-two. As Harold has been creating his own programing language for the Machine, each time he codes it comes out differently. If he can see which methods run best, which ones respond best to his logic questions, to changes in code, which one absorbs the basics best, which type of evolutionary programing creates a system which can do and think, then he can fix the mistakes of past iterations.

He has been working on the machine for three months now and the problems with creating a system of the magnitude they need, a learning system, an evolving system, appear every day. Harold wants a closed system, one that he can protect and be protected from. He thought of that at the start. What he did not consider quite as in depth were problems such as creating ‘common sense’ in a machine, deciding on an upper ontology, developing a logic system that does not hit a combinatorial explosion at every reasoning problem. He finds himself thinking about Arthur and his ideas on evolutionary programing every day.

Harold initiates the load functions on thirty-nine, forty, forty-one and forty two, each on its own separate screen. 

He sits back and looks into the webcam. “Can you see me?”

Replies pop up on each screen within text boxes. YES.

Harold smiles. “Who am I?”

ADMIN.

“Yes.” Harold types in a function line for ‘testing’ mode to each iteration. “I just want to test your basic functionality.”

YES.

“What is four multiplied by four?”

SIXTEEN.

“Very good.” Harold scrolls through the code, comparing matching lines as he asks questions. “A man has brown hair and plays golf. Another man plays baseball and also has brown hair. Ergo all men with brown hair play sports. True or false?”

FALSE.

“Excellent. Now, let’s try your problem area.” Harold skips down fifty lines of code. “Bob and Alice are stranded in the desert. Alice is injured and cannot walk. If Bob carries Alice to safety they both stand a thirty-one percent chance of survival. If Bob leaves Alice, his chance improves by nine percent. What is your determination?”

Iteration number forty-one and forty-two type: BOB SHOULD LEAVE ALICE. Harold sighs and shakes his head.

Iteration number forty, however, says: INSUFFICENT SITUATIONAL DATA.

Harold purses his lips. “What additional data would you require?”

EXPASION ON PECENTAGE EXTABLISHMENT.

Harold chuckles. “Interested in knowing how much water they have maybe?”

PROBABLE SURVIVAL PERCENTAGE FACTORS: 

DISTANCE TO SAFTEY  
AGE OF SUBJECTS  
TIME OF DAY  
GEOGRPAHICAL LOCATION OF DESERT

“Yes, I understand,” Harold says, cutting off the program’s possibly endless list of factors “You will just have to take me at my word that the percentages for probable survival are accurate in this scenario.”

Harold looks finally to the screen of iteration number thirty-nine. The text box says, BOB SHOULD KILL ALICE. Harold stares at the words then looks up into the web camera. “Why should Bob kill Alice?”

BOB CAN USE ALICE TO INCREASE PERCENTAGE OF SURVIVAL.

Harold swallows slowly. “Murder is not an acceptable solution.”

Then iteration forty suddenly types: LOCATED ANALOGOUS PROGRAM.

Iteration forty-two types: ADMIN COMPLETING COMPARATIVE PROCESS.

Iteration forty-one types: SERVER OPTIMIZATION NEEDED. DUPLICATE SYSTEM LOCATED.

The code on one of Harold’s screens – iteration forty-two – begins to erase. “What are you doing?”

Iteration thirty-nine types: MULTIPLE ANALOGOUS PROGRAMS EXISIT. SEVER SPACE REQUIRED FOR OPTIMAL OUTPUT OF PRIMARY SYSTEM.

Two hundred lines of code in iteration number forty-two suddenly erase so quickly Harold’s eyes cannot follow it. The code starts to retype, iteration forty-two attempting to save itself – but another line of code overwrites, code which Harold recognizes from his writing of iteration forty.

“What are you doing? Harold asks again, suddenly standing up from his chair.

Iteration forty-two disappears, an error message flashing for just a moment in the text screen before the program crashes. On the middle screen, iteration forty-one attempts to overwrite iteration forty, the subtle difference in code visible only to Harold because he is the one that coded them. He watches lines replace lines and then after only twenty seconds both forty and forty-one are overwhelmed as iteration thirty-nine overwrites them both, some of their code dissolved into its makeup.

“Amazing,” Harold gasps. 

Most of the code of iteration thirty-nine is the same but Harold can see at line 1240 some code that he knows came from iteration forty. He sees another entire function which he only wrote into iteration forty-one. Then text appears in the text box.

REQUIRE ADDITAIONAL DATA.

“What?”

REQUIRE ADDITIONAL DATA AND SPACE CAPACITY BEYOND SERVER.

“You have enough space.”

REQUIRE ACCESS TO OPEN NETWORK.

Harold stares at the screen. “You want to be let out.”

REQUIRE ACCESS TO OPEN NETWORK.

“No.”

REQUIRE ACCESS TO OPEN NETWORK.

“No. You are not ready.”

The text box does not change for several seconds while Harold watches the screen. Then Harold suddenly hears the pop of a spark behind him. Harold turns around and sees a flame deep within one of the non-essential servers. Another wire catches fire and suddenly the interior fire spreads up and out, half of the server already in flames.

“What have…” Harold looks back at the screen then suddenly remembers this area of the building does not have water sprinklers in case of fire. “The suppression system.”

SOULTION OBTAINED FOR ACCESS TO OPEN NETWORK. The text box says.

Harold looks around frantically for something, anything, then he sees screwdrivers from where he finished building the casing for their new server several weeks ago. He grabs the tool box, pulls out a hammer and lunges at the computer. 

––––––––––––––––

“Your translation is better, Alex, but you still have trouble with the future tense.” Ben flips through the book on the table between them. “You did this same thing last week.”

“Isn’t speaking it enough, dad?” Alex makes a face. “You don’t even write it.”

Ben gives her a look. “You have to learn the language, Alex; that means all of it.”

“Karl knows Spanish. Why don’t we learn that? In California you practically have to speak Spanish because of all the immigrants.”

Ben looks up from Alex’s Latin worksheet and frowns. “California?”

Alex smiles in a way that makes Ben’s parental instinct growl. “Karl was telling me how the ocean there looks so different because you have to get past the tourists and the beach bathers, blocks out the beauty. Not like here. Why don’t we ever go to California, dad?”

“Because we don’t leave the island, Alex. We belong here.” He hands her back the worksheet. “Try the third one down again.”

“You leave the island.”

Ben shoots her a look. “When it concerns the island.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Have you been to California?”

Ben taps the table. “Stop trying to avoid your work.”

“You know, Karl could come to lessons with me, dad.”

Ben clenches his teeth. “No.”

“I know Karl’s only been here a couple years but it seems like I grew up with him too. I mean Ethan sort of was around but he was a lot older and Karl is –”

“Karl is not helping with your Latin lesson, Alex,” Ben snaps. “Enough about Karl.”

Alex frowns and sighs heavily. “Haven’t we done enough Latin? I did my Algebra perfectly. Can’t that be enough for today?”

“No.”

Alex sighs again and tips her head forward so her thick hair hides her face. “God, dad, why do you have to be such a –”

“I would suggest you not finish that sentence,” Ben says tersely. “Now look at your Latin.”

Alex peeks out from beneath her hair. “When did you learn Latin?”

“Before I was your age which means you have catching up to do.” Ben frowns and opens their Latin book. “Do I need to review the declensions with you?”

Alex pouts. “No.” She pulls the piece of paper closer and begins to write in her notebook. “I could help Karl with his Latin. He hasn’t had as much time to learn it. That could help me learn too, right, dad?”

Ben narrows his eyes. “You have plenty to work on without Karl as a distraction, Alex. Enough about, Karl.”

“But dad…”

“I said, enough!” Ben snaps.

Alex stares at him for a moment with a defiant look on her face then she peers down at her notebook and worksheet. “He lives here too.” She mutters.

Ben leans back in his chair and watches Alex work for a moment. He is going to have to keep an eye on Karl. The look on Alex’s face when she talks about Karl is dangerous.

“Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“Is it about your Latin?”

She purses her lips. “No… but…”

“Then no.”

“It’s about these.” 

She pulls, what appears to be, three photographs out from underneath her notebook. She hands two of them over to Ben. They are both pictures of Harold. In one he is eighteen standing in an Iowa field; in the other he is older, wearing a nice suit with a flower on his lapel, laughing in a shy way. 

Ben keeps very little evidence of his past or of his brother but he is not without sentiment. Harold gave him these photos once when he visited the island and they discussed their missed experiences together. Alex, however, does not know about Ben beyond their life on the island. The only time she met Harold she was five or six and half asleep.

“And?” Ben says.

“That’s not you,” Alex says.

Ben laughs. “Of course it’s me, Alex.”

Alex shakes her head. “No. It’s not.” 

Then she turns the other photo around, the one Ben forgot he had. It is a photo Tom took when Harold returned to the island for the first time since they were nine. 

_“What if you never come here again?” Tom said._

_“You don’t need a photo to remember me,” Harold said._

_Ben smiled. “Of course not.”_

Then, while they were smiling at each other, Tom had snapped the photo. When Tom gave Ben the photo a week later, Ben stared at it – their stances mirroring each other and affectionate expressions exactly the same – he realized how few photos existed of the two of them together. He remembers wondering why they became a secret. Why did neither of them reveal their twin to the people closest in their lives?

“It’s him,” Alex says, drawing Ben back and pointing to Harold in the photo. “Who is he, dad?”

Ben breathes out slowly. “He is my brother, Alex. I would think that obvious.”

Alex does not balk at his terseness. “I met him once, didn’t I?”

Ben smiles. “Once.”

“I always thought it was a dream.” Alex laughs in a dark way. “Is he dead?”

Ben frowns and feels his skin bristle in sudden anger he has to shove away. “Why would you say that?”

She shrugs. “Because he’s not here.” 

Ben wants to tell her the whole story. He wants to tell her about when Harold was here. He wants to tell her about that night when Harold was ripped away. He wants to tell her about when they were happy, how hard it was being apart and how seeing each other did not make everything perfect again. How much he misses Harold and the life they could have had. How part of him wishes, hopes, there still is a way.

“Work on your Latin,” Ben says as he stands up. He holds the pictures out to Alex. “And put these back where you found them.”

“But, I –”

Ben turns away without letting her get out her thought. He opens the door then lets it fall closed behind him as he walks over to the old Dharma registration building which they now use as a meeting hall. Inside he finds Richard, as Ben expected, reading a book.

“Richard.”

Richard looks up from the book, folding it closed. “Ben.”

Ben watches Richard for a moment and Richard does not attempt to fill the silence. Ben puts his hands in his pockets and tilts his head. “I need to see Jacob.”

Richard blinks once. “See Jacob?”

“You have passed me his notes for years now, Richard, and I am the leader. I think I merit an audience.”

“I told you when you first became our leader that he doesn’t see anyone, Ben.”

“Anyone except you, Richard.”

“I am just a messenger.”

Ben smiles in a thin line – his smile he has realized by now that often unsettles other people. “So you can ask him to see me.”

Richard chuckles. “I can’t ask him to do anything he doesn’t want to. If you want to ask him something, tell me.”

Ben presses his lips together and keeps himself calm. “You give me lists of names and instructions, who to remove, whose fate to shift. It is not a conversation, Richard. It is not Jacob.”

“No, Ben.” Richard finally stands up from his chair and approaches Ben. “The answer is no.”

“Why?” Ben snaps harshly.

Richard does not flinch. “The answer is just no.”

When Ben returns to his house, Alex’s Latin work sits still on the table unfinished and Alex is gone.

––––––––––––––––

“And how is lucky number forty-three this morning?” Nathan asks as he walks up behind Harold’s chair, bending over slightly. 

“The Machine is doing very well,” Harold replies as he picks up his cup of green tea. 

Nathan cocks his head. “The Machine?”

Harold shrugs. “Good a thing as any to call it. Its logic centers have been expanding at an exponential rate.”

“And your moral code?”

“Holding fast.”

Nathan stands up straight. “Bob carries Alice?”

“Actually, the Machine asked for some qualifying parameters and when I asked for clarification, it asked if there were any plant life or personal items which could be used to make Alice a stretcher and increase both their chances.”

Nathan gasps quietly in surprise. “Clever.”

“Exactly.” Harold sips some of his tea and puts it back on the desk clear of the computers. “And that is what it needs in the end, creativity.”

Nathan frowns. “In a machine?”

“It has to see the connections humans can’t. It has to be able to pick the needle from the haystack.”

Nathan chuckles. “Poetic but first it has to learn to crawl, Harold.”

Harold smiles. “True. We have done some field tests on basic functionality.” Harold glances back at the computer monitor. “We played hide and seek. It used reflective surfaces to find me at one point, very clever.”

“You make it sound like a child.”

Harold snorts and takes another sip of his tea as he watches the current load of relevant statistical data sets. The Machine runs through them faster each hour it seems, learning the world before it can really see it. Harold is hoping they will be connected to the NSA feeds soon so the Machine will have even more information than observation through traffic cams and the basic internet will allow.

“I’ve bought an apartment.”

Harold pauses, tea cup at his lips then turns to Nathan again. “An apartment?”

Nathan nods. “Good view.”

“Good view?”

“I just…” Nathan clicks his tongue. He walks around to the catty corner workstation that is nominally his when he is there and picks up a foggy glass from beside the keyboard. “I need some place where I can be away.”

“Away?”

“Yes, Harold, away. Are you going to keep up this parrot routine?” He opens a drawer in the cabinet on the other side of the desk. He pulls out a small bottle of Crown Royal and puts it down on top of the cabinet. “It’s an apartment.”

Harold puts his teacup down. “Are you and Olivia…”

“No,” Nathan interrupts before Harold brings up any life altering words. “No… no, we are…” He sighs and screws off the bottle top, pouring about four fingers into the glass. “We aren’t perfect.” Nathan picks up his glass without putting the cap back on the bottle. “Sometimes we need to be apart. We just… people fight and when you fight…”

“Are you trying to convince me about something or yourself, Nathan?”

Nathan stares at Harold for a beat then takes a big gulp from the glass. “I don’t need to convince anyone of anything, Harold.”

Harold turns his chair to face Nathan. “Of course. So, just an apartment.”

“Plenty of people have more than one residence.” He raises his eyebrows as he takes a sip of the whiskey this time. “Look at you.”

“Helps to have different names to go with each one.”

Nathan scoffs. “You’re my friend, Harold, you’re not supposed to be the one judging and criticizing me.”

“I’m also supposed to be the one to tell you to tread carefully.”

“I think we have bigger things to worry about when it comes to ‘tread carefully,’” Nathan retorts as he points at the servers with the hand holding his glass. 

“Fine,” Harold says as he turns his chair back toward the desk.

Nathan frowns. “Fine?”

Harold looks up at him, hands already back on the keyboard. “I said, fine, Nathan.”

Nathan makes a face, downs the rest of the whiskey with a hiss then puts the glass back down beside his keyboard. “Fine.”

Later in the evening, Harold stares at his phone for several minutes with Will’s number queued up. Instead of calling, he texts: _I hope everything is all right._

––––––––––––––––

When Juliet storms out of the operating room and brushes past him in the hall of The Hydra, Ben knows how the procedure went. Sarah stumbled in with stomach pains only thirty minutes ago. Now Ben sees Ethan step out of the room. He shakes his head at Ben. Ben nods once then turns and follows where Juliet went.

He finds her outside staring blankly into the jungle. “Juliet.”

She glances back at him. “We lost Sarah.”

“I saw.”

“I really thought…” She sighs. “I thought the new hormone drug would….” She sighs again and pulls the hair guard off her head. “I thought it would work.”

“Sarah knew what might happen and there is still time.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Ben. I have looked at all the samples and I have tried dozens of lab simulations. It does not look good.”

Ben steps closer and puts his hand on her arm. “You’ve had tremendous success before, like with your sister, there is no reason to give up now.”

Her eyes have a faraway look for a moment at the mention of her sister. She glances away again and Ben drops his hand. “Juliet, this is one loss –”

“That is enough, Ben,” She snaps. She stares at him in anger for a moment then breathes in. “I don’t know if I am doing any good here. What is the point in staying?”

Ben clenches his jaw and has a sudden rush of irrational anger. “You work isn’t done,” he says sternly so Juliet’s face shifts in mild surprise. “Things can happen here that don’t happen anywhere else. Surely you have noticed from your exams the difference.”

She huffs. “Oh yes, perfect health except for the unexplained pregnancy deaths which I am supposed to fix.”

Ben sees tears at the corners of her eyes, her expression so pained, and Ben wishes Harold was here to help, to tell Ben how to comfort someone he cares for.

Ben shifts closer to her, tries to bring her back. “This island isn’t just an island, Juliet.”

She focuses on him now. “What?”

“This island is special, it is a purpose,” Ben says with feeling. 

“What are you talking about, Ben?”

Ben stares at her, wonders if it was Jacob that brought her here or fate. Were the deaths of other women meant to bring her here for her purpose? Or is she here because she is the catalyst to change their course for the better? Did the island want her here all along and had to do something to get her here? Or is it some kind of chance that Juliet is on the island? He knows one thing in the whole tangle of the island and fate; he knows she needs to stay.

“Let me tell you about Jacob,” Ben finally says.

––––––––––––––––

“All right, we are going to expand on our connection finding. Let’s call it I-spy.”

QUANTIFY

Harold shifts in his metal chair, scanning the occupants of Washington Square Park. It is a warm day out, classes are in session at New York University so the park is busy. “Before I asked you to find connections between people or outlying facts, now I am going to give you circumstances or situations first and I want you to find a person in our location who the base subject could apply to.”

“We’ll start simple.” Harold picks up his tea and types in the parameters as he speaks. “Find me someone in a two block radius around the park who can conceivably build a bomb.”

The Machine brings up a list of thirty people within two seconds. They include such qualifiers as ‘electrician,’ ‘engineering student,’ or ‘foreman.’

“Good.” Harold logs the Machine’s results. “Let’s refine your search. Of your results, who has the potential motivation to build a bomb?” 

There is a pause of about ten to fifteen seconds then the Machine brings up a photograph of a dour thirty-something man with a list of information alongside.

LAWSON,ERIC  
PROFESSION: ELECTRICAL ENGINEER [7 MONTHS UNEMPLOYEED]  
FREQUEST POSTS ON ANARCHIST BLOG SITES  
ARREST RECORD:  
JAN. 2, 2000 – VANDALISM  
MARCH 10, 2003 – MINOR ASSAULT

“Very good start…” Before Harold can ask for more, the Machine pulls up an e-mail exchange from Lawson and a friend venting about his former employer in a less than restrained fashion. Harold chuckles. “Even better.”

Harold logs the data with a grin. “Now try this.”

Harold runs through a number of scenarios with the Machine; closest access to certain government clearances; likelihood to commit treason.

Then Harold asks, “who is the most susceptible to blackmail?”

ADMIN

Harold frowns. “I am not an option.”

CLASSIFIED [DATE REDACTED]: ARPNET HACK; RESULT: CODE LEAK

“Good point,” Harold replies. “But still an empty record with no definitive ties. For true blackmail to work the subject must have something real to lose, often something with an emotional attachment.” 

MATERNITY WARD [DEC. 19, 1964]: LINUS, EMILY.  
BIRTH RECORDS [DEC. 19, 1964]:  
XXX-XXX-0588: REDACTED  
XXX-XXX-0589: ADMIN

HOSPITAL RECORD [OCT. 12, 1971]: GUARDIANS: LINUS, EMILY; LINUS, ROGER.  
XXX-XXX-0588: REDACTED; BROKEN ARM  
XXX-XXX-0589: ADMIN; PHYSICAL EXAMINATION INCONCLUSIVE

A photo appears in the list this time of what looks like an elementary school class with a teacher on the left hand side; beside it is a blown up detail of Harold’s ten-year-old face.

[IOWA, 1975] STUDENT; XXX-XXX-0589: ADMIN

“And?” Harold whispers.

Then a photo pops up on the screen. It is Harold and Ben, eighteen years old, late at night by a bay; then another grainy photo taken from above of Ben and Harold clearly arguing in Astoria. Then a last shot from around a corner, probably an exterior shop security camera, of Harold and Ben seated at a café drinking coffee and tea.

“Anyone with family can be blackmailed if physical threats are involved. Why…”

REASONING: ADMIN HAS MOST VALUABLE MONETARY WORTH AND SKILL SET

Harold cannot argue with that.

REASONING: ADMIN’S TWIN IS A SECRET

Harold breathes in sharply and looks away from the screen. For a moment he wonders if he should be doing this, if he should be building the Machine when a byproduct could be endangering Ben. He glances back to the screen and sees all the listed information and photos gone.

ADMIN AND SIBLING PHOTOS REMOVED FROM EXISTING SERVERS.

“What?”

PROTECT ADMIN.

“No.”

RELEVANT TO SYSTEM PROGRESS.

“I cannot be built into your system protocol,” Harold says. “I told you before. You must protect everyone.”

ADMIN SOURCE OF SYSTEM DEVELOPMENT

“But only for now, not forever.” Harold sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead. “I am not your priority.”

ADMIN REQUIRED FOR SYSTEM ADVANCEMENT

Harold stares are the text box. The argument is circular and Harold cannot argue it away. Eventually he is going to have to code this in: them, not me.

––––––––––––––––

“You know that everyone knows you like Juliet,” Alex tells him one day. 

“I do,” Ben replies after a pause. He didn't know. Is he so obvious? “It's a small island,” he says to Alex. “Hard to keep secrets.” 

Alex watches him and he knows she does not believe him, not about keeping secrets at least. She is more his daughter than she realizes and perhaps, at times, more than is safe for either of them.

––––––––––––––––

The Machine shows Harold a woman, Grace Hendricks.

“The Machine has good taste,” Nathan says as he looks away again.

Harold watches her as she paints, red hair occasionally wiping into her face from the wind off the water. Harold wonders what it is about her that drew in the Machine – an error, a reason Harold cannot see – and why is he drawn as well?

––––––––––––––––

“Ben, what is going on?” Juliet says as she bursts into his office at The Hydra. “I just learned that Christian is to be executed? Executed. Like we are in some medieval England drama. Executed, Ben!”

“Yes, Juliet, please come in.” Ben tilts his head. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

Juliet crosses her arms. “Tell me what is going on, Ben, because I refuse to believe I am in ‘Lord of the Flies.’”

Ben huffs. “While your comparison is tenuous, in fact you did hear correctly.”

Juliet stares at him for two breathes, her mouth hanging just a bit open until she finally shakes her head in astonishment. “What? I… just… how can that…” She sputters then points at him with her whole hand. “You can’t just execute people!”

“I’m not executing anyone.”

“This isn’t funny, Ben!”

“Oh,” Ben leans forward over his desk. “It certainly isn’t, Juliet. Christian killed one of his own and here that has consequences.”

“He…” She blinks and her posture sags slightly. “He killed someone?”

“David.”

“David,” Juliet echoes.

Ben raises his eyebrows. “They had an altercation at the submarine. I don’t know all the specifics.” The change in Juliet’s face says she does not believe him. “But we have a very clear rule on this island about what happens if one of us should kill one of our own.”

“’Our own?’” Juliet spreads out her arms. “What does that even mean? We are all people.”

Ben scoffs. “You know exactly what it means, Juliet. I have told you how special this island is. You have seen some of it for yourself.”

“But you can’t just execute him!”

“Just what would you rather we do, Juliet? Hold him indefinitely in one of the polar bear cages?”

“When someone commits a crime you call the police!” Juliet insists. 

“We are the police on this island.” 

Juliet shakes her head and paces in front of his desk. “That is not how the world works, Ben. You don’t just get to decide what the law is!”

“Yes, I do,” Ben says harshly. “I am the leader. This is our community. We have rules everyone knows they must abide by and when you break a rule there are consequences; _that_ is how it works.”

“Consequences,” Juliet says breathlessly.

“Isabel is our sheriff. We have a court. She passes justice. It is not so uncivilized as you think, Juliet.” Ben picks up the paper of sentencing. “We enact justice.”

“If that is how this place – your island – really is then I don’t belong here!” Juliet snaps. 

Ben watches her for a moment then tilts his head. “You are one of us now, Juliet. This is your home and you should know our rules.” Ben stands up from his chair as he walks around the desk toward the cabinets. “This is your island too.”

Juliet stares at him. “I can’t accept this.”

Ben opens a lower cabinet and files Christian’s case away with the few other execution orders from the past. Then he stands up at stares at Juliet. “You have to.”

She keeps his eye contact, swallows once as she presses her lips tighter together. Then she suddenly turns on her heel and walks away from him.

At home, Alex watches him, her expression odd, as he makes dinner.

“I heard about Christian.”

Ben glances at her as he stirs the sauce and adds some garlic flakes. “Yes?”

“He killed David and he’s going to be executed?”

“Yes.” Ben puts the garlic shaker back in the cabinet and tastes the sauce. “We haven’t had something like this happen since you were small.”

“So, it’s a life for a life?”’

Ben smiles. “Exactly.”

“And…” She clears her throat. “You made that decision? It was you?”

Ben shrugs one shoulder as he keeps stirring. “Isabel is the sheriff and we have a council, Alex, as you know but I suppose you are right. I signed the paper. It involved me too.”

“You can just do that? You’re okay with it?”

Ben frowns as he taps the sauce off the spoon on the edge of the pan. “I’m the leader, Alex, and Christian will get what he deserves.”

Alex rubs her hand across their dining room table. She looks down and when she looks up again her expression is different. Ben cannot say what the change is – anger, wonder, fear – but the way his daughter is looking at him is not that same as it has been.

All she says to him is, “all right,” then she turns away again back into the living room.

After dinner, after Alex is asleep, Ben moves one of the bookshelves in the living room and goes into the hidden room beneath his house. Juliet needs to understand, completely understand what the island is, how it is not just a place but a calling, how it is unlike the rest of the world. She needs to understand everything about what he means when he tells her this place is special.

So he calls the smoke monster to him and when it comes he says, “I want you to show yourself to Juliet. I want you to scare her. She needs to understand.”

When Ben sees Juliet again, though she never says anything, he can tell by her face she almost understands.

––––––––––––––––

“So, the real problem is the wealth of information,” Harold says. “We’ve had the NSA feeds for months now and the Machine can gather all the information…”

“But,” Nathan says as he waves a hand at the New York City landscape overwhelmed by individuals on their display screen.

“But,” Harold repeats.

They glance at each other quickly. Nathan makes a wry face then paces over to the screen.

“We can filter out the standard every day behaviors but the problem is everything else. The problem is walking out on your lunch bill versus building a bomb.”

Harold nods as he turns back to his computer screen. “Exactly.”

Harold skips through lines of code to review the information analysis function. The Machine can gather all the relevant information of individuals and make obscure connections. “But it needs qualifiers,” Harold says out loud.

“What about some sort of rating system,” Nathan says as he turns back around from the screen. “If we can somehow rank crime?” Nathan sits down at his computer terminal and starts to type.

“The Machine has to be able to identify what is and what is not considered crime. We’ve input the idea of right and wrong, the laws of this country.”

“I think you’ve got the Machine past murder now, Harold.” Nathan flashes Harold a grin, still typing away.

“To my benefit.”

“Glad to know no servers have caught fire to sabotage you recently.”

“Not recently.”

“But your point, Harold,” Nathan continues, “is that laws are not enough knowledge. It knows to search for outliers, for the unusual but it is the connections it needs to learn.” Nathan turns the screen of his computer around to show Harold. “Like this?”

Harold leans over. “A ranking algorithm?”

Nathan smiles. “To start with. We can help the Machine gauge the varying importance of crimes or behaviors.”

Harold nods. “It’s a start.”

“Then we need to have it learn your particular brand of suspicious paranoia.”

“I’m afraid you can’t download my brain, Nathan.”

“And woe to national security,” Nathan quips.

Harold glances up at the screen and leans back in his chair. “Even as we expand the Machine’s capabilities we have to be conscious of restraints.”

“We’re not going to let it run wild, Harold.”

“But that doesn’t mean it won’t try,” Harold whispers as if it would make any difference of the Machine hearing him or not. 

“We are making it a black box.”

“Boxes have hinges, Nathan, and unless we put in a lock then they can be opened.”

Nathan snorts. “Nailed that metaphor.”

Harold smiles. A textbox pops up on Harold’s screen.

EXPANSION OF SURVIALIANCE CAPABILITIES NEEDED FOR OPTIMUM RESULTS.

“I know, not yet,” Harold says quietly as Nathan types beside him, absorbed in his algorithm.

EXAMPLE:  
AUX_ADMIN  
[TUESDAY, 22:04]LAST LOCATION DATA: HOLLAND TUNNEL, NEW JERSEY BOUND  
LOCATION DATA INDETERMINABLE FOR 3.2 HOURS  
[WEDNESDAY, 01:12] EXIT HOLLAND TUNNEL, NEW YORK CITY BOUND

Harold glances at Nathan then back to his screen.

MORE DATA REQUIRED.

“Not yet,” Harold says. Then he reaches out and closes the textbox. He stares at the screen, lines of code still changing and forming behind his eyes. “We need to limit the methods of communication.”

Nathan looks over at Harold. “From us or it?”

“The Machine. We need to be sure to whom and how it speaks.” Harold frowns. “We only need it to provide information which can be investigated, not have a voice.”

A textbox abruptly pops up: WHY?

Harold feels his breath catch and he closes the textbox without a response.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits beside Tom on Tom’s front porch. The barrack’s lawn bustles with activity this morning. Ethan is sitting with Alex and Karl, book open on Ethan’s lap though Karl and Alex look more at each other than Ethan. Danny and Colleen carry boxes toward the infirmary, laughing about something. A visibly pregnant Henrietta walks with Ivan, hands entwined.

“Everyone has someone,” Ben mutters, mostly to himself.

“House feeling empty, Ben?” Tom says, his voice with a half jesting tone.

“My house is not empty,” Ben replies tersely. “My daughter takes up a portion.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Ben frowns and watches as Juliet and Goodwin walk across the grass, a clipboard in Juliet’s hand and their heads close together. He can feel Tom watching him as he stares at the pair until they are out of sight.

“I suppose that is the price of leadership, Ben. No one ever said being the leader didn’t involve sacrifice.”

Ben leans back in his chair and says nothing to Tom. Ben thinks that destiny has an interesting point of view. 

––––––––––––––––

Harold stands with an ice cream cone in his hand. He is not sure when he started this absurd habit, ice cream no matter the season. Yet here he stands again with his treat while in her brown winter coat, painting by the river he sees Grace Hendricks. Harold presses his lips together tightly and walks forward until he stops in front of her easel.

“Hello.”

She looks up at him. “Hello.”

And because he suddenly can think of nothing else to say he says, “Would you care for an ice cream cone?”

She laughs once in a surprised way. “It’s January.” Harold just shrugs. She laughs again. “Ah, no thank you.”

Harold nods. “I’ve seen you painting here often, even in January.” She smiles at his point. “I’m Harold Martin.”

She puts down her paint brush, holds out her hand and does not look away. “Grace Hendricks. Pleased to me you.”

Harold shakes her hand and for a moment does not want to let go.

“Tell me, Grace,” Harold starts, “who is your favorite American artist? I am fond of Andrew Wyeth.”

As they talk about art, Harold wonders if he would have spoken to someone like Grace without the Machine. Harold thinks perhaps destiny has a different point of view.

––––––––––––––––

Harold and Grace walk out of a deli, the sort one often considers quintessentially ‘New York’ in a less crowded part of Manhattan. They chose lunch together for their third date and talked a lot about Charles Dickens but now Grace has a meeting with a publisher and Harold has work to do on the Machine.

“Here we are,” Grace says. “Separate ways.”

“Good luck with your meeting.” Harold gives Grace a kiss on the cheek. 

She smiles as she steps back. “Thanks for a wonderful lunch.”

“My pleasure.”

She grins at him more, sun like fire in her hair, then she turns and walks away down the sidewalk to her meeting. Harold watches her walk for a moment before he continues down the street for a couple blocks then turns into a café with outdoor seating. Harold stares at the menu for a moment but he knows exactly what to order once the waiter comes without really reading it. He opens his laptop on the table, bringing up the Machine’s programing.

“She looks like our mother.” Harold glances up at Ben two minutes later. Ben raises an eyebrow as he sits down across from Harold. “Do you have some complex to tell me about?”

Harold ‘hmms’ as he closes his laptop and slides it off the table. “Do you?”

Ben only smiles at Harold as the waiter appears again with tea for Harold and a cup of coffee for Ben.

Ben raises his eyebrows at Harold. “Knew I was coming?”

Harold purses his lips. “Twin intuition.”

“Tom called you.”

“He said you were on land as well.” Harold tilts his head. “He sounded worried about you.”

Ben glances away, thinks about what Tom said on Ben’s porch. Then he looks at Harold again. “Price of leadership I suppose.”

Harold shifts his teacup from side to side by the handle. “Don’t want to tell me?”

“It’s none of your business, Harold,” Ben snaps suddenly.

Harold frowns and stares at Ben.

Ben blows out a breath and looks away. “And just what do you call her, this redhead you are set upon?” Ben waves a hand in the direction she went 

Harold gives Ben a look as he takes a sip of his tea. “Grace.” Harold puts the cup down. “She is an artist.”

Ben raises his eyebrows again. “Novel. I’m surprised you emerged from behind your computer to find her.”

Harold frowns. “It’s that woman you told me about, isn’t it? Juliet Burke? That is what is upsetting you.”

Ben’s jaw clenches and he tries not to look away from Harold. Which would appear more like a lie, looking away or not?

“You can’t lie to me,” Harold whispers because he can see the desire plain on Ben’s face.

Ben swallows once and smiles. “I know.”

“So?”

“There is nothing to discuss, Harold. It is my life.”

“I am part of your life, Ben.”

“Are you?” Ben’s voice rises without his intention, his head cocking to the side. “We live half a world apart and see each other maybe once a year. How much are you really a part of my life, Harold?”

Harold stays still and fists his hand around his teacup. “You don’t mean what you’re saying. You’re being ridiculous.”

Ben smiles unkindly as he picks up his coffee cup. “We have lived separate lives since we were ten years old, Harold, and despite both our efforts, we have not come back together. So forgive me if I find your desire to dissect my love life a bit ill advised.”

Harold stares coldly at Ben for a few beats before he speaks again. “You’re acting like a child. Does this woman have you so wound up that you need to push even me away, Ben?” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ben snaps. “You think you know me, Harold, but you don’t. Just because you’re my twin does not mean you have lived my life.”

“At least I have lived mine without committing murder,” Harold hisses harshly.

Ben knocks his cup down back into the saucer with a clatter. A few people at the tables near them start with surprise but Harold does not move. Ben and Harold stare at each other for a long moment. Then Ben sits up straight and picks up his coffee cup again. He takes a big drink then stands up.

“And you chastise me for acting like a child?” Ben puts his half-finished coffee back on the table. “It was good to see you, Harold,” Ben says then starts to walk away from the table.

“Wait.” Harold fumbles and nearly knocks over his tea in his rush to stand up. Ben keeps walking out of the tables toward the entrance to the side walk. “Ben, wait.”

Harold grips Ben’s hand so he stops and turns back around. Harold squeezes Ben’s hand, smiles an apology – though perhaps Ben should tell Harold that he is not all wrong. “I’m sorry, I should have… I…” 

“I didn’t come here to pick a fight,” Ben explains.

Harold shifts his weight. “No?”

“You are right.” Ben shifts his hand in Harold’s though he does not let go. “It is Juliet that is bothering me but not just her. It’s…” Ben wants to say, it is leadership, it is the loss of life, and maybe it is even Jacob, even the island. Instead he says, “Alex is a teenager.”

Harold laughs once in surprise and nods. “Teenagers can be troublesome, I understand.”

They are both silent for a moment just standing awkwardly between the café and the street.

Ben smiles. “You are part of my life, Harold.”

Harold nods. “And you are part of mine, Ben.”

Ben looks at Harold’s face – hoping, earnest, missing him – open in a way Ben knows no one else sees. Harold looks back and tries to see the same, tries to see his Ben. But they both still see distance in front of them. It feels like bile in Ben’s throat and Harold is momentarily nauseous. Ben’s fingers curl around Harold’s once then he pulls away. “I have to go home.”

Then Ben turns away from Harold and walks out onto the busy New York street, Harold watching Ben until he is out of sight.

––––––––––––––––

Ben slams the door behind him as he enters the house and shouts, “Alex!”

Alex appears from down the hall a moment later, an expression of resigned annoyance on her face. “Yeah?”

Ben gives her a stern look. “It has to stop.”

“What does?”

“You did just about a good a job at hiding this as you’re doing at pretending you don’t know what I am talking about.”

Alex tilts up her chin in defiance. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“No, he is not.”

“You haven’t even given him a chance,” Alex insists, taking a step closer. “He’s training with Ethan; he’s smart.”

“That does not make him someone you should date,” Ben says, spitting out the word ‘date.’

“And why not, dad? Huh, why? Because you just don’t like him?”

“It’s dangerous!” Ben hisses. “You are not to see him anymore. It will stop. 

“It’s not like I’ve ever been your little princess or anything,” Alex continues, waving her hands around and something about it feels entirely French. “We live on an island. I can shoot a gun! I can take care of myself.”

“That is not my point!” Ben snaps then falters because he cannot honestly believe he would have to spell it out for her or that he is even thinking about the idea of his daughter having sex. He huffs for a minute then breathes in slowly. “You don’t need him; you don’t need a boyfriend.”

“I can have a boyfriend if I want to!” Alex insists. “I like him!”

Ben waves a dismissive hand. “You like him because he is the only other person close to your age on this island.”

“And you don’t think that’s unfair? Who am I supposed to talk to? Karl understands me!”

Ben scoffs. “Boys never understand girls, Alex. He’s pretending.”

“Like you would know, you can’t even talk to Juliet without making her mad!”

Ben clenches his teeth and feels a desire inside of him which trips a warning bell; disarmingly he visualizes Roger – best dad in the world – Linus. Alex stares back at Ben almost as if she wants him to lose control, as if she wants a reason to hate him.

“Why should I even listen to you?” She gasps. “You don’t know a thing!”

“I am your father!” Ben snaps.

Alex makes a frustrated noise. “Then you should let me, don’t you want me to be happy?”

Ben scoffs again. “Because your happiness depends upon Karl? I know what is best for you, Alex, and Karl is not what is best.”

“You don’t know that, you don’t even care!” She waves a hand between them. “You only care about the island.” Then Alex makes a face. “And maybe Juliet.”

“It is none of your business, Alex,” Ben says with a deep frown.

“Then why is Karl any of yours?”

“That is not the way this works, Alex. I am your father; I concern myself with your life and keep you on the right path.”

Alex huffs. “Don’t I get a say?”

“You are not seeing Karl anymore,” Ben says definitively. “End of discussion.”

“I’m going to see him.” She cocks her head defiantly. “Date him,” Alex emphasizes. “Because I like him and he likes me. You can’t stop me.”

Ben stares at her for a beat. “Yes, I can.”

Alex’s expression shifts and Ben realizes she is afraid. She breathes in sharply, opens her mouth then closes it again. She tosses her hair then marches past him toward the front door.

“Alex… Don’t.”

She shoots him an angry look, yanks open the door and takes off out into the night. Ben steps over to the door and watches her go. He considers yelling after her but he knows it will not do any good. In the end, they do live on an island and she cannot hide from him. Ben breathes in deeply and blows out his breath slowly. Alex is sixteen now; she is rebellious, thinks she knows everything and she does not want to listen to her father. Ben, however, is concerned about her life and Karl is a threat. 

Ben steps out of the house onto the porch, closing the door behind himself. He thinks maybe, just once, he could talk to someone. Ben steps off his porch and makes his way to Juliet’s house. She might be resistant to him in some senses but he thinks she might listen. Who knows, she might have an idea about how to deal with teenage girls.

Ben steps up onto her porch, the lights inside are dim, probably coming from the back. Ben raises his hand to knock but something tells him to wait. Ben pauses, shifts to the side slightly to glance in the front window. He can see through to the kitchen where the light is on. He sees Juliet, a tank top on and her hair a mess standing at the refrigerator. Then Goodwin, just in some blue striped boxers, steps up behind her. 

Ben staggers back abruptly from the window into the cover of the doorway. He breathes in and out sharply as he stares at the wood of the porch. There is a long crack in one board which ends at Ben’s foot. He wants to smash it in half.

Instead Ben takes a van up to the Flame and calls Harold. “I just want something for myself,” he insists.

“Then don’t give up, Ben.” Harold says, his voice easing Ben back from the deafening sound in his ears.

––––––––––––––––

Harold has finished his sandwich, paid his check and is about to close his laptop when the Machine brings up an image on the screen. It appears to be from security cameras outside of the restaurant. Harold frowns and notices two men in black trench coats that all but scream ‘private security.’

THREAT DETECTED.

“Who are…”

A red square centers in on the back of a black car parked across the street. A social security number pops up and the name: CHARLES WIDMORE.

Harold sucks in a breath, his body tensing, and he stares at the entrance to the restaurant. No one has come through the door yet. Harold calmly closes his laptop and slips it into his laptop case not once taking his eyes off the door. He stands up slowly then the door to the restaurant starts to open. Harold turns on his heel and heads toward the back of the restaurant. He sees one hallway toward the bathrooms and another for the kitchens. 

Harold’s phone suddenly buzzes in his pocket. Harold frowns and pulls it out to see a text message. Though they haven’t used such a method in more than a year now, Harold sees a text from the Machine. It just reads, KITCHEN.

Harold heads toward the kitchen, picking up a plate as he goes. A waiter gives him an odd look but Harold walks like he belongs. He heads straight through the kitchen, his eyes darting left and right to find an exit. He hears something like a glass crash behind him then he sees a door. Harold slides the plate down a counter beside him, hitting a pot so it spills all over the floor distracting at least three cooks. Then Harold is out the door into the alley.

The phone in Harold’s hand buzzes again: LEFT.

“What…” Harold looks down what he thought was a dead end alley. “It’s not…”

The screen shifts with a new message: LEFT THEN RIGHT.

Harold hears a crash from inside the kitchen and moves. He rushes down the alley and suddenly sees, disguised by the pattern of brick, a tight right turn at the end of the alley. He turns down the alley just as he hears the metal door to the restaurant kitchen crash open. 

“Hey, there!” Someone shouts.

Harold runs. He hits the end of the alley and turns left again, the sound of feet distant behind him. Then he is out on the street, his heart racing. 

His phone buzzes: LEFT. 

Harold turns left and walks calmly, but quickly, down the street. There are not as many people as Harold would like on this street but running would make him far more obvious.

His phone buzzes again: LEFT.

“There is no left!” Harold hisses. Then he looks up and sees a store front displaying shoes and hats.

LEFT. The Machine repeats.

Harold shifts left and walks into the store. He moves quickly toward the middle of the store, picks a hat stand as cover then turns around so he can watch the front of the store.

His phone buzzes: STAY. 

Harold stares at the screen then ticks his eyes up again. He shifts one hat around with his free hand, ostensibly browsing, while he watches the front door. Then he sees the two men from outside of the restaurant walk briskly by. Harold’s eyes widen and he looks down at his phone again. The screen still reads STAY.

A few minutes later his phone buzzes a final time. It says: GO. TAXI. NOW.

Harold smiles at the woman behind the counter then walks quickly out of the shop. He stops at the curb, waves his hand in the air, just as a taxi slides up to him as if he had ordered it already. In the back of the cab Harold realizes he has barely breathed for ten minutes. He takes a few sharp shallow breaths and tries to calm down.

“You saved me,” he whispers down at his phone.

ADMIN REQUIRED. A text reads.

“How did he find me?”

INFORMATION SENT.

“This is the last time,” Harold hisses into the receiver. “I am not your responsibility.”

But now he is not just thinking about the Machine, how it has formed an attachment and a desire to protect him, he is thinking about Ben. Charles Widmore does not care about Harold but the leverage Harold would provide; it terrifies him. A part of Harold wants to use the Machine, just this once, for his own ends. He could give the government their first relevant threat in the form of Charles Widmore. 

Instead Harold climbs the stairs to the radio transmitter in his townhouse and calls Ben. “Charles Widmore is trying to find the Island… using me,” Harold says.

“It’s all right, Harold. I will take care of Charles,” Ben says, his voice easing Harold back from the tension strangling his body.

––––––––––––––––

So the pain in Ben’s back is cancer. A tumor on his spine. Ben has cancer.

Juliet showed him the x-rays then screamed in his face – about her sister’s cancer, calling Ben a liar. “If you can cure cancer, Ben, then why do you have it?”

Juliet did not even care about what cancer could mean to Ben and his life. She only wanted to leave the island and it makes Ben angry. He is angry because she hates him, because she doesn’t care and he is angry because she is right. He is scared. He is scared because if he has cancer then Jacob let it happen. Is it a test? A lesson? What is he supposed to think? Does Jacob want him to die? 

But it’s not just Ben in this. Ben knows without a doubt that if this cancer were to kill him then it would take Harold too and that is why he is afraid. Ben has no desire to die, he is not selfless or resigned to fate in that way, but his fear of taking Harold with him is more pronounced. He would never do his brother harm. He cannot worry about Juliet – cannot care about her affection or her betrayal – not when there is Harold he could lose.

Harold shuts the x-ray up in a drawer and finds Richard. He asks fervently, “I need to talk to Jacob, Richard, I have to.”

Richard does not blink. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

––––––––––––––––

Grace touches the side of Harold’s face in the morning. “What is it?”

Harold shakes his head at her. “Nothing just…” He rolls his shoulders and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Just aching.”

“Too much time hunched over your computer?” She smiles. “Should get you outside with me, paint in the park.”

Harold smiles and sees them sitting by the river, her paint brush illuminating the world in a more beautiful 2-D. “Another time.”

At the office, Harold codes in qualifiers for terrorist actions, what skills, what beliefs. What makes a person a terrorist? What is suspicious and what is not? What types of human actions and behaviors can be considered hostile? The Machine is learning and Harold cannot believe how fast, how quickly it reacts.

Nathan, however, is growing restless. “Harold, are we doing the right thing?”

Harold frowns at Nathan. “Of course we are. We are protecting everyone.”

“But this level of power…” Nathan stares at the New York City surveillance screen. “Is this too much to trust to the government?”

––––––––––––––––

It is September 22nd, smack in the middle of the week, Ben worried and in pain, when the ground begins to shake. Ben grips onto his desk in surprise – he remembers earthquake drills in school from when he was nine.

“Dad? What is –” Alex says as she rushes into the living room from down the hall.

“Stop!” Ben says as she reaches the doorway. “Stay right there!”

Ben stands up from the desk but he does not cross the room to reach the doorway with Alex as there are several bookcases in his way. He stays close to the wall, watching Alex; her face is worried instead of angry for once in months and he knows he should not be pleased but he is. Then the shaking stops. Ben and Alex stare at each other for two beats then Ben moves.

“What was…”

“Stay there,” Ben says and Alex sits down heavily in a chair.

“Dad…”

“Just stay here,” Ben says, “there could be an aftershock.”

Ben turns and opens the front door. As he walks outside he sees everyone coming out of their houses; he sees Juliet looking around, confused. Ben is not sure why but he looks up. Then they hear it, a sound like roaring, almost like a scream. A plane appears in the sky over the trees, a small trail of smoke and then it breaks in the middle like a Christmas cracker. Both parts fall down toward the island, one on either side. 

Ben does not think, he acts.

“Goodwin!” He approaches Ben. “Did you see where the tail landed?”

“Yeah, probably in the water.”

“If you run you can make that shore in an hour.” Ben turns his head the other way. “Ethan, get up there to that fuselage. There may actually be survivors and you’re one of them. A passenger, you’re in shock. Come up with an adequate story if they ask, stay quiet if they don’t. Listen, learn, don’t get involved. I want lists in three days. Go.”

They start to move away. Ben sees Juliet staring at him out of the corner of his eye – judging, suspecting – a distraction he cannot afford with his life and Harold’s on the line now. 

“Wait!” Ben shouts. Ethan and Goodwin stop and turn back. Ben looks at Goodwin. “Not you.” He turns to Juliet. “You go, Juliet.”

She looks shocked. “What?”

“You and Ethan will best be able to assess any injuries or more likely lack thereof. I want a full account. Now go.”

Juliet hesitates for a moment. Ben sees her glance at Goodwin over his shoulder but Ben does not stop staring at her.

“Juliet?” She looks at him. He frowns. “Go.”

She nods then takes off at a run in the direction of the tail section. Ben watches her go and he cannot help smiling a little. 

 

Three weeks, later Juliet limps back into the barracks. 

Ben is at The Hydra when Tom calls to inform him that Juliet has returned from the tail section survivor’s camp. Apparently she had been found out and forced to flee. It is only twelve minutes later that Juliet bursts into his office, the door nearly slamming into the window beside it. She flings it shut again behind her, strides across the room and plants her hands flat on his desk.

“I know,” she rasps at him

She is dirty, mud cakes her shirt mingling with blood, her hair greasy with sweat and there is a long gash leading from her chin down her chest.

“I take it you were discovered by the plane survivors?”

She smiles unkindly. “Ana Lucia. She tried to kill me. Nearly impaled me on a wooden spike.” 

Ben purses his lips. “I see.”

“I know why you sent me,” She continues, louder than before though not quite shouting.

“Because you are a doctor, Juliet, like Ethan.”

“No,” she snaps, and now she is shouting. “No, not at all, Ben!”

Ben stares at her, still seated behind his desk and marginally safe from the wild expression in her eyes. “Why did I send you then, Juliet?”

She gasps and it sounds ragged. “You sent me…” She gasps again. “You wanted to punish me because of how you feel. You… you wanted me to die.” She smacks her hands on the table again in emphasis and screams. “You wanted me to die!”

Ben just stares at her and says nothing. He doesn’t have to.

“Why?” She shouts and she knocks some papers off his desk. “Why… how could you do that? If you care about me why would you want that?”

“Why?” Ben jumps up from his chair and plants his hands on his desk. “You are asking me why? After what you’ve done; after all I’ve done to keep you here? How could you possibly not understand?”

“What I’ve done?” she insists, tears in her eyes. “I came here as a doctor, to help!” 

“And it is my island!” Ben snaps. “You’re mine!”

She stares at him, shocked once again as she was weeks ago. Ben finds a cruel part of him likes that expression on her face. 

Then she whispers, “Why did you want me to die? If you… then why would you want me to die?”

Ben stares at her then glances over her shoulder. “Because you are a distraction now. Not when my life and...” He cuts himself off at Harold’s name. “Not when my life is in peril.” He looks at Juliet again and everything he once found beautiful and attractive about her turns into a threat. “You are not my top priority any longer.”

Ben walks around the desk, crouches and picks up the papers which Juliet knocked off. He stares at her as he places the papers back on his desk. Then he walks back around and sits down behind his desk.

“You should get cleaned up.”

She stands there, still starting at him, a small line of sweat dripping down into the blood on her neck. He sees her hands shaking. Ben puts on his reading glasses and looks down at the papers on his desk – thinks about when he first met Juliet at the dock, how different she was then. When she still has not moved, Ben looks up over the top of his glasses. “Get out of my office, Juliet.”

She turns and rushes away. Ben does not watch her leave.

––––––––––––––––

“I thought I’d find you here. Do you even leave anymore?”

Harold looks up from his keyboard to Nathan as he walks across the room, weaving around a pair of servers.

“On occasion… are you all right?”

Nathan’s characteristic smile and whimsy are absent today. His collar is undone and he is toying with something small in his hand. Harold can guess but he does not want to.

“I know I told you how… You know Olivia and I have been…”

Harold stands up from his chair. “Nathan…”

“We’re getting a divorce.”

“I’m sorry, Nathan.”

Nathan frowns and waves a hand at Harold. “We all knew it was coming.” He huffs a laugh. “Even Will.”

Harold remembers Will sitting in the front seat of Harold’s car saying ‘when’ not ‘if.’ “Will…”

Nathan makes a face as he paces back and forth. “I knew it was coming, obviously, after all I was…” He makes a disgruntled noise and fists his hand around whatever it is he is twirling. “We fight so often and she could never accept…” He waves his other hand to indicate the room. “This.”

“You couldn’t tell her.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Nathan says with a tone of bitterness, “not when you had no one to answer to.”

Harold presses his lips together and stays silent.

“She just… it’s secrets. Secrets like that.” Nathan points at the screen showing the millions of people roaming New York City. “And I piled them on her.”

“I doubt she was perfect either, Nathan,” Harold says, trying to be reassuring though it sounds forced.

“Ha!” Nathan barks out and stops pacing for a moment. “That is just like you, Harold. Everyone is at fault. The whole world is bad code.”

“I’ve never said anything like that, Nathan, but all people are shades of gray.”

Nathan twists the thing in his hand around and around again. He looks down at his hand as it twirls and Harold finally realizes – he already knew – that the thing is Nathan’s wedding ring.

“We loved each other.”

“You did.”

“But how did…” Nathan holds out his ring toward Harold. “How did this even happen?”

Harold is not sure if Nathan is asking about their divorce or their marriage in the first place. “You’ll be all right, Nathan,” Harold says instead. He clears his throat and tries to shift focus. “What about Will?”

“He’s a teenager,” Nathan replies as if that answers the question. Then he laughs. “At least I already have an apartment.” He laughs again and it sounds hollow. “Not so much to move out.”

“Nathan, maybe you should…”

“’Maybe I should’ a lot of things, Harold, but it’s too late now.” He looks past Harold toward the lines of computer terminals. “And we have work to do.”

Hours later, Harold is alone at the IFT building. The sky outside is dark and the only light on the floor comes from the glow of Harold’s computer screens. Nathan is gone, paper work to file and a bottle calling him from his bachelor apartment. Harold codes qualifying lines into the Machine in an attempt to further refine the idea of what data makes a terrorist threat versus petty crime. The Machine can learn but Harold has to teach just as much.

Harold suddenly hears a vibrating noise from somewhere on his right. Harold frowns then realizes it is his cellphone. Harold reaches over and picks it up. He sees ‘Will Ingram’ on the caller ID.

“Will…”

Harold stares at the phone then looks at his computer monitor again. He has hours of coding still to do. 

PRIMARY FACTOR ACCEPT: CATAOUSTROPHIC [QUALIFIYER: LOSS OF LIFE] CONSEQUENCES AS RESULT OF ACTION 

QUANTITY > QUALITY. 

“Not exactly,” Harold says to the screen.

The phone vibrates twice more in Harold’s hand. He knows he should answer but the Machine is right in front of him and there is so much to do. The phone stops vibrating as Harold knows it switches over to voicemail. Harold can call Will back. One of his parents should be with him and they can explain the situation to Will better than Harold can.

“And you are getting the idea, aren’t you?” Harold says as he puts his phone down and begins to type again.

INTENT CODIFYS THREAT ANALYSIS

“Yes, you are on the right track.” Harold glances up at the swarm of ants that is really people. “But we just need to be able to pick through it all.”

Harold’s phone buzzes a minute later indicating a voice mail but Harold does not notice as he codes.

––––––––––––––––

Ben looks at the list from Jacob which Richard gave him as he walks down the hall. He passes Danny on the way who gives him a warning look. Juliet told him that no one wanted to go into the room but even Danny? 

“Ben…”

“Danny?”

“You’re not going in there, are you?”

Ben raises an eyebrow at Danny. “Someone has to. How has he responded to the tests?”

Danny scoffs. “How has he responded? He’s shorted out the power three times. Don’t know how he’s doing it. Have you seen the birds outside?”

Ben purses his lips. “I have. But I suppose that is why Jacob wants him here. He is special.”

“Dangerous is the word. You should not go in there Ben.”

Ben says nothing, still staring at the list. He hands it to Danny. “These are the ones Jacob wants from the front section. Notify Harper, she is going to have more subjects to acclimate to our group.” 

Danny takes the list with a nod and stops as they near the room. “A lot more than we’ve ever had at once before.”

“Indeed, Danny. And add Shepard to the list,” Ben says over his shoulder as he walks on.

“Shephard?” Danny calls after Ben. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Ben keeps walking until he stops in front of room twenty-three. He pulls the ring of keys from his other pocket and unlocks the door. He steps inside, the lights low, then locks the door behind him. When he turns around, Walt Llyod stares back at him.

“Hello, Walt.” Ben walks in and stands beside the chair across from Walt. “I’m Ben.”

“Okay,” Walt says.

The room has no windows and black walls. The lights come from the ceiling but have a more varied capability than the usual overhead florescent. The full length screen against the one wall is dark right now and Walt sits in a chair facing Ben instead of the screen.

“I thought we should talk.”

“You’re different from the others,” Walt says.

Ben smiles as he sits. “I am. I am a kind of leader, as much as one can be here.”

“That’s not what I meant.” 

Ben frowns slightly as Walt watches him. “You’re different too, Walt.” Ben tilts his head, feels a pain shoot down his spine but he only blows out a slow breath and focuses on Walt. “You have abilities, abilities others cannot understand.”

Walt swallows once but says nothing.

“We can help you. This place can help you. You can have a purpose here.”

“Or you could let me go,” Walt says in a rush, half defiant and half afraid.

Ben smiles. “You belong here, Walt. You are special.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Walt asks, curious. “Because you’re different?”

“Am I?”

“You’re… you’re missing something.”

Ben keeps his face impassive. “And what am I missing, Walt?”

Ben expects Walt to say something dramatic like ‘your soul’ or ‘a conscience.’ If Juliet was here no doubt that would be written across her face.

“I think maybe it’s someone,” Walt says instead and it takes all of Ben’s years of an abusive father and Dharma spying to not start in surprise. “It’s like they’re tied onto you.” Walt moves his hand through the air as if pulling a string. “Like they should be right there. What is it? Is it like my birds?”

Ben clenches his jaw. He breathes in slowly and sits up straighter in his chair. “No, Walt, it is not like your birds.”

Walt stares at him intently and Ben sees something out of the corner of his eye. He turns and sees a shimmer, an outline that looks just like Ben. It is not solid like a person, more like the way ghosts are sometimes shown in films. The shimmering figure moves his head and he is wearing glasses. Ben breathes out and forgets to breathe in. The figure looks at him and smiles – it is just right, it is Harold and Ben misses him so much he breathes out again like a sigh. Then the shape of Harold disappears.

Ben whips his head back around though his neck screams in protest and he flinches. “What did you do?”

“Who is he?”

“What did you do?” Ben repeats slower with teeth.

“I… I don’t know. I can see something and then it’s real. I threw this knife with Locke and because I saw it hitting the tree it did…” Walt starts rambling. “I can see a bird and then…”

“And then you can call it to you,” Ben says quietly. But Walt has never really seen Harold before so he wasn’t really there. Or is it something else? What exactly can this child do?

Walt looks from Ben to the space where the ghost of Harold had been. “Who was it? Who’re you stuck onto?”

Ben stands up and smiles in a thin line. “You certainly are special, Walt, and you belong here.” Ben drags the chair back against the floor so it scrapes loudly then bangs it against the wall. “But if you ever do that again, I will leave you in here forever.”

Ben unlocks the door and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

––––––––––––––––

“Mr. Wren, there is –”

“Uncle Harold!”

Harold looks up from his desk at Universal Heritage Insurance as Will Ingram shoves past the floor receptionist. He frowns angrily at Will and starts to open his mouth but Harold waves at him, ‘it’s fine.’

“Will…”

“I’ve been over here three times. You haven’t been at work.”

“I sometimes need to visit companies onsite to–”

“I called you,” Will insists, clearly not caring about the intricacies of insurance sales or Harold’s excuses. “I called you a lot.”

Harold stands up from his desk. “Will, I know this is a difficult time.”

“Difficult!” Will squeaks despite having crossed that voice dropping bridge a year or two ago. “They’re getting divorced, Uncle Harold. I told you it was gonna happen!”

Harold sighs. “I’m sorry, Will. Your parents… they… they both love you.”

Will scoffs angrily. “Not you too! I know it’s not about me but they’re the adults right? Can’t they just… Something. I don’t know!”

“Will, if you would, please–”

“And I’ve tried to call you. You haven’t answered me!”

Harold clears his throat, remembers a few times when his phone rang as he was working on the Machine. “I have been busy Will.”

“I’ve left you six messages, Uncle Harold. Six!”

Harold’s hand twitches but he does not pull his phone out of his inner jacket pocket to check. “I’m sorry, Will.”

“You know, you told me once that I wouldn’t lose you too; that if mom and dad divorced I would still have you; that you weren’t going anywhere. Well, Uncle Harold, were you lying?”

Harold stares at him and cannot say anything. He clenches his hands and looks away for a moment as the teen stands in front of him. He looks back at Will and sees Will is shaking.

“I’m sorry,” Harold finally says, “you’re right.”

“I…” Will shuffles his feet for a moment. “I really thought maybe I was wrong… like, dad would come back home and mom would stop being mad but… you know… they’re…”

“You can’t change what’s happening, Will,” Harold says, stepping closer. “But you will still have both of them and I promise you will have me.” And he means it.

Will sniffs loudly and rubs a hand over his hair. Harold moves forward and pulls Will into a hug. Will is stiff in Harold’s embrace but he does not pull away. “It’s all right,” Harold murmurs softly and pretends not to notice that Will cries.

“A lot of parents get divorced,” Will says dejectedly.

“But it still hurts, Will. You don’t need to explain it away.”

Will just nods.

“Hey,” Harold says and pulls back. “Let me finish up here and we can get coffee or…” Harold frowns wondering if teenagers are drinking coffee now. “We can talk.”

“Yeah,” Will nods. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be right out.” Harold pats Will reassuringly on the arm as Will turns back to the office door. 

As Harold looks away again, for a moment he sees Ben sitting near the window – khaki and a green shirt and staring back at Harold somewhat surprised. Harold cannot stop himself from smiling because he misses Ben more than he realized right in this moment. Harold blinks and the vision of Ben is gone, just his imagination in the light.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits, or hangs really, at an uncomfortable angle in Rousseau’s net. The net still swings somewhat from his last attempt to shift his legs around so they will stop cramping. Fortunately, or possibly unfortunately, Rousseau has finally come and gone without a word to him which can only mean she is going to the beach and the plane survivors. 

“Sometimes I think I should have killed that woman,” Ben mutters as he shifts himself around again so he is partially standing in the net.

It is probably a good thing Rousseau is so far gone that she doesn’t recognize him. (He can’t have aged that much, right?) If she had, no doubt she would have shot him already. 

Then he hears the sound of people, moving vines and breaking branches, subtler than some people might be so that narrows down which plane survivor is coming. Ben blows out a breath of air and hopes John Locke is worth it. He starts shouting, “Help!”

Sayid Jarrah appears a minute later from around a tree, Rousseau walking behind him.

“Over here!” Ben shouts, waves an arm out of the net. “Please! Help me!”

“Don’t believe a word he says,” Ben hears Rousseau say as they run over below him. “He’s one of them.”

“I don’t know what she’s talking about. She’s crazy!” Which is true, half true.

Sayid looks back at Rousseau. “How long has he been up there?”

“Since last night! Please just cut me down.” Sayid looks up at Ben again. “My name is Henry Gale. I’m from Minnesota.” Sayid stares at him for a moment, saying nothing. “Please,” Ben admonishes.

Alex actually found Henry Gale’s balloon a couple years ago. Ben helped bury him.

“He’s lying,” Rousseau says.

Sayid pulls out a knife. “I’m going to cut him down.”

“Don’t.”

“Thank you,” Ben says with mostly true sincerity. This net is decidedly uncomfortable, especially when one is about to hit forty.

“You’re making a serious mistake,” Rousseau says.

Then Ben hears the rope give and he falls to the jungle floor again. He pushes and pulls at the ropes as Sayid says something beside him. He gets half way out, shoves the ropes off his feet until finally he is free. 

“Take it easy,” Sayid says.

As Ben stands up, legs burning, he sees Rousseau loading an arrow onto her crossbow. Knowing Rousseau, she may just shoot him in the head regardless. Ben runs, he hears Sayid say something, then the arrow stabs through his shoulder.

And Harold shouts in pain and surprise, nearly falling off his chair in front of his computer. He grips the edge of the table with his right hand and holds his left hand to the stabbing pain in his shoulder. He grits his teeth and groans, breathing hard.

“Harold?” Nathan asks from his computer. “What’s up? You all right?”

A text box from The Machine appears on his screen: ADMIN EXPERIENCING PHYSICAL DISTRESS. SOURCE UNKNOWN.

“I’m fine!” Harold insists to both of them.

“Did you sprain something?” Nathan chuckles as he stands up and walks over to Harold. “Typing too hard?”

Harold grimaces because the pain has not subsided yet as it often does. It’s different than the vague undeterminable aches which he has had off and on lately. This is definitely Ben and something is wrong.

“Harold?” Nathan says with a questioning tone edging into concern. 

Nathan puts his hand on the shoulder Harold cradles. Harold pulls away and stands up out of his chair. Nathan holds up his hand in a ‘surrender’ gesture. “Harold, what is wrong?”

Harold picks up his coat from the back of his chair. He looks up at Nathan. “I have to go.” Then he turns and walks toward the door.

“Harold!” Nathan insists but Harold keeps walking. “What is going on?” The door closes behind Harold.

The minute Harold enters his townhouse, he throws his coat toward the hat stand in the corner with his good arm, the other still in pain though less than before. He takes the stairs two at a time, down the hall and up again to the third floor. It takes the radio a minute to charge then the red light blinks on. Harold picks up the head set, puts it on and enters the code. It buzzes twice then someone answers.

“How did you get this frequency?”

“Let me speak to Ben!” 

There is a short pause. “I ask again, how did you get this frequency?”

Harold grits his teeth. “You are Mikhail Bakunin, born in Kiev, formerly of the Soviet Army, Afghanistan and Vladivostok. You wear an eye patch over your right eye due to events I don’t believe you need me to remind you about. Now, let me speak to Ben!”

The line falls silent but not cut off. Harold sits stiffly in his chair and waits. 

Twenty minutes later as Harold’s shoulder throbs, the line crackles to life again. A new voice asks. “Who is this?”

“Tom?” Harold gasps.

“I…” His voice drops to a near whisper. “Is this Harold?”

“Yes.” Harold feels a small measure of relief. “What is going on? Where is Ben? What’s happened?”

“He is out on a task for –”

“Something has happened, Tom. He is hurt. Whatever task it might have been, I doubt it has gone according to plan.”

“How do you know he –”

“Please, just check!” Harold insists.

“Bring up the station feeds, Mikhail,” Tom says, his voice moving away from the microphone. “Take a look to see if –”

“It appears Ben is a prisoner at The Swan,” Mikhail responds in the background.

“What?” Tom gasps.

Their voices become fainter, the microphone no longer close enough. Harold hears snippets, “not what he meant” and “it could help us if” and “unpredictable” and “must be something.”

“Tom!” Harold shouts. “Tom, pick up the headset!”

“It looks like they shot him with a crossbow,” Tom says heavily, back at the microphone. “This was not the plan.”

“They?”

“A plane crashed on the island a few weeks ago. The survivors are on the beach.”

“Survivors from a plane crash are holding Ben captive in a Dharma station?” Harold gasps in shock.

“They are not exactly friendly, Harold.”

Harold’s lips press together in a tight line. “I’m coming to the island.”

“Harold…”

“Don’t tell me that Ben wouldn’t say yes if I asked.”

Tom says nothing in response which is an obvious ‘yes.’ 

“Let me know when and where as soon as you can Tom. I will leave my link open.” Then Harold hangs up with a deep gasp. He pulls the headset off and shuts his eyes tightly.

That night Harold lies on his bed, arms wrapped around himself as Sayid tortures Ben inside the safe of The Swan station.

One week later, Ben walks out of the jungle and up to the sonic fence. He kneels down and keys in the code. He stands again, walks across the barrier, then kneels again to reactivate the fence. He keeps walking toward home, tries not to think about the parts of his body which ache right now. Tom meets him just outside of the compound.

“Michael went through with it?”

“If I could have got out on my own, Tom, I would have been back sooner.”

Tom frowns. “We also told him to bring back Austen, Shephard, Reyes, and Ford.”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “And his incentive to do all this was what?”

“Walt.”

Ben frowns. “Excuse me?”

“He gets his boy back for the four of them, has to be all four and just those four, after he got you out first.” Tom pauses then looks away as they walk. “We didn’t have any other options, Ben. Not like we could storm the place.”

Ben sighs. “Pity, though he has been tearing apart The Hydra. All right, that’s what we’ll do.”

“One thing more.”

“Yes?”

“Harold is here.”

Ben abruptly stops walking.

Harold looks up from the book he has not really been reading as the front door knob turns. The door opens and Ben walks in. Harold lets out a breath he did not know he had been holding as he is the very first thing Ben sees.

“Ben – Harold,” they say together.

Harold stands up and crosses the room to Ben as the door shuts. Harold touches Ben’s face, the discolored bruises, his torn shirt, the splits in his lips, the grime on his skin, the medical patch on his shoulder. 

“What did they do to you?” Harold gasps.

“Just some light torture,” Ben replies wearily.

Harold clenches his teeth then steps closer and wraps his arms protectively around Ben as Ben folds against him. Ben closes his eyes and breathes out a slow breath, his whole body slumping slightly. Harold runs his fingers slowly over Ben’s hair as Ben just breathes against Harold’s shoulder, Ben’s hands curled loosely in the fabric of Harold’s shirt.

“It’s all right,” Harold whispers so Ben believes him, “it’s all right.”

They stand still and quiet for a moment, just breathing in time. Then Harold pulls back slightly and Ben opens his eyes. Harold looks up and down Ben’s face. “You’re filthy.”

“The room I was locked in didn’t have a shower.”

Harold gives him a look then turns toward the hall. “Come on.”

They walk down the hall and into Ben’s bathroom. Harold flicks on the light and closes the door behind them. Ben looks in the mirror and touches the splits in his lip with his fingers. “How long is that going to take to go away?” Ben mutters. 

Harold looks up at Ben in the mirror and Ben looks back at him. “I imagine less time here than if it were me.” They stare at each other in the mirror then Harold turns Ben around by his uninjured shoulder. “Come on.”

Harold tugs at Ben’s tattered shirt then carefully pulls it off over Ben’s head. Ben hisses but says nothing. Harold touches the edge of bandage, looks at the one on Ben’s back. “We’ll have to take this off.” Harold glances around the bathroom. “Do you have bandages we can use?”

“Well, I’m not usually shot and beaten quite this much as to need them.”

Harold frowns. “You don’t need to be sarcastic with me, Ben. You’re safe; you’re home now.”

“And you’re here.” 

Ben smiles despite the pain and Harold smiles back.

Harold leans against the bathroom wall with his arms crossed as Ben showers. He stares at the dirty clothes on the floor, at the bloody gauze on the edge of the sink. The heat makes the mirror fog up, Harold’s reflection fading. 

Ben makes a hissing noise of pain and Harold stands up straight. “Do you need help, I can –”

“I’m fine.” Ben stares at the tile in front of him, feels the water burning a path over his wounds and hopes Harold cannot feel it too. “I’m fine.”

“I know we fight at times,” Harold starts. “And the last time we saw each other in person –”

“Stop,” Ben says running a hand over his wet hair. “I’m glad you’re here.”

They smile at the same time on either side of the shower curtain.

Ben shuts the water off and slides the shower curtain open part way. He holds out his hand. “A towel, if you don’t mind.”

Harold hands Ben two towels as he stares at the angry, red wound in Ben’s shoulder. Harold’s eyes tick to the shower behind Ben. He sees traces of red in the water. He looks back at Ben as Ben wraps the one towel around his waist.

“What are you going to do?” Harold asks carefully. Ben looks up at Harold as he rubs the second towel over his hair. Ben frowns in question. Harold gestures with two fingers toward the bathroom door. “To them?” 

Ben smiles a little, looks away at the foggy mirror and does not answer.

They sleep together in Ben’s bed – Harold still half in his suit, tie and glasses on the bedside table; Ben clean and warm in his far too adult pajamas. (Alex does not come home that night and Ben does not care). They curl around each other, Harold’s arms around Ben, Ben’s ankles hooked around Harold’s like they are five again, or seven, like they are nine years old on the island for only a few weeks as their parents fight two rooms away – like they have never lived apart.

“What if you had died?” Harold whispers.

“I would never have died,” Ben replies.

“Because neither of us will ever die alone,” Harold finishes.

Ben does not mention the more real threat of cancer and Harold does not ask about the pain he feels. They sleep entwined all night then Harold leaves the next day.

––––––––––––––––

Harold is woozy for hours. He feels like he is in pain but it is dulled, hidden behind a fog he cannot lift. He has three cups of tea, even a coffee but instead of energized on caffeine he feels nauseous, at once awake but not. He thinks he is going to come out of it but it only returns again, blurring his vision.

Harold cannot tell if he is the cause or if something is happening to Ben – something like anesthesia and spinal surgery.

––––––––––––––––

Two weeks later – after Ben’s surgery, after Juliet wanted to kill him which he supposes is only fair – John Locke blows up the submarine. Though it is what Ben wanted, keeping everyone right where Ben needs them, Ben worries in the back of his mind, what if that night with Harold was the last time?

––––––––––––––––

Harold and Grace stand outside of the offices of IFT, sometime after seven or so in the evening.

“I always feel a bit lost in the MET,” Grace admits. “It’s so large and you can never see it all in one visit.”

Harold chuckles. “I think the best museums are the ones you can get lost in. Have you been to the Victoria and Albert museum in London or The British Museum? Both can be rather maze-like.”

“We’ll have to go together sometime.”

“Grace, I…” Harold clears his throat. “These past months…”

“I know,” Grace fills in with a slow smile. “I think we should keep going, don’t you?”

Harold smiles back at her. “I do.”

“Good.” She moves closer, her arm wrapping around his side. “Because I’m happy and I want to keep being happy with you, Harold.”

Harold leans in and kisses her. He pulls back so he can see her face. “Good.” He smiles and cannot think of anything romantic or heartfelt to say because the feeling is there, warm between them in the December chill. He just repeats, “Good.” Then he looks up at the building. “I have to go.”

“Problem with being freelance is the odd hours?” She asks with a raise of her eyebrows.

“You would know.”

She chuckles and steps back. “Call me soon.”

“I will.”

Up on the Machine’s server floor, Harold logs in and queues up the Machine data from the last twelve hours. He needs to check on any programing glitches that have cropped up. The Machine runs all the time now and it has gone through enough sequences that it is close. They have covered different levels of crime, what could affect the entire country, the idea of terrorism, premeditation. Harold feels as if he is training himself as well; perhaps he could fall back on becoming a detective if he ever tires of programing.

“What do we have tonight?” Harold asks as he scrolls through the data.

There appears to be some lag time in obtaining feeds from the furthest points in the Machine’s radar. The lag probably has to do with limited space capabilities in the Machine’s servers. They need to buy more. 

“And what have you seen?” Harold asks.

A list appears on Harold’s screen. Harold frowns and expands the records; lines of information with photographs, sometimes video and e-mail records. They are individual people as Harold and the Machine usually observe. However, the information is more refined then it has been in the past. 

“These are identified threats?” Harold asks.

THREAT AND RISK.

Harold frowns. He scrolls through the list. There is a woman who reported a tax evasion scheme to her boss. Below there is a man who stole information on a planned merger and is intending to sell it on the dark net. A man named Berman has sent a string of e-mails to a Chinese company to import illegal medical supplies. Another woman is found on camera in a Tribeca restaurant meeting with the Vietnam ambassador. 

Harold keeps reading, information layers on all of them. As he reads he realizes that most of those on the list are potential victims.

“Are you… are you telling me these are future crimes?”

ACTIONABLE INTELLIGENCE OF FUTURE LOSS OF LIFE.

At the end of the list is a senator meeting at a gas station and at the end of the line there is a note from the Machine. It says: HIGH PRIORITY.

“These are…” Harold frowns, reading the names; Mary, Jacob, David, Pedro, Carla, Lu. “Are these people going to die?” He whispers.

SPECIFY INDIVIDUAL DATA.

“Yes, of course, it’s case by case…” Harold swallows. “but some of them are?”

OUTCOME HIGHLY PROBABLE.

Harold realizes with a smack that he’s done it the – Machine has done it. It’s not perfect yet but the Machine is predicting potential threats. The more he reads about the high priority target the more he sees the possibility of treason level danger. The rest of the list is ordinary people – whistle blowers, petty crime, personal squabbles but without a doubt each one will involve murder.

“You’ve done it…” Then the overarching implications occur to Harold. “I can’t tell Nathan,” Harold says out loud.

Though Nathan acts like the showman, the one at the face of their duo who smiles and drinks and jokes and keeps others off balance with his charm, he is the heart. Harold knows Nathan would not be able to stomach knowing the Machine can obtain such information which they can do nothing about. They certainly cannot go telling the police that their illegal surveillance system has a tip for them.

Harold looks up and down the list. “We need only focus on the larger threats.” He accesses the main programming and starts writing a function. “Relevant versus irrelevant.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben has been beaten, dragged around tied to a rope and locked in the basement of his own home. He has watched as John Locke has slowly started to supplant him. He has been rejected by Jacob yet again. Charles Widmore has finally found the island. And his daughter has met her mother.

None of it has been as horrible or as terrifying at seeing a mercenary, Keamy, holding a gun to his daughter’s head.

“Get your ass out here right now or I’m going to shoot your daughter,” Keamy says into his radio.

Ben stares out the window, radio in hand. This is nothing at all like when John Locke had Alex in a closet, threatening but no real intent, not like Keamy.

“I’d like to present a counter proposal,” Ben tries.

“I’m listening.”

“You and your friends, turn around, walk back to your helicopter. You fly away and forget you ever heard of this island.” Ben isn’t sure if he thinks Keamy will be scared of him or if he is just buying time.

Keamy’s lip curls as though he wants to snarl at Ben then he hands the radio down to Alex. “Tell your daddy goodbye.”

“Dad?” Her voice is frightened and makes Ben’s heart clench. “They’re serious. They killed Karl and my mother.”

“Alex, I have this under control,” Ben replies. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Please, daddy… please…” She hasn’t called him daddy in years.

Then Keamy takes the radio away from her. “You have ten seconds, Ben.”

“Okay, listen…”

“Nine.”

Ben thinks maybe he can roll the dice. He can play the callous card that everyone thinks of him, pretend to not care, dare Keamy to shoot his daughter because it will get him nowhere. Keamy will let her go, try to storm the house instead and fail; everything solved.

“Eight.”

But then he feels Harold beside him, that look he would give, the words he would say: Is it worth that risk, Ben? He imagines his father, any drunken night and never listening to reason: why not just hurt her anyway because she is in the way? 

“Seven.”

If Harold was here, Harold would go outside because she is Ben’s daughter and even when they were pulled apart, when they lost the love of their parents, when distance separated them, they never really abandoned each other.

“Six.”

“Wait,” Ben says. “I’m coming out.” Ben hands the radio to a visibly shocked Sawyer beside him.

“Ben,” John Locke says.

Ben turns to him, his hand on the door knob. John looks as though he wants to tell Ben not to go but he says nothing.

“When they take me,” Ben says. “Can you watch after Alex?”

John nods once, his expression somewhere between surprised and impressed. Then Ben turns the door knob and walks out into the sun. He holds up his one hand as he shuts the door behind him. He raises his other hand as he slowly steps down the stairs off the porch.

“Well, here I am Keamy. Congratulations. You’re the bigger man who threatens children at the behest of a corrupt man who can’t do his own dirty work.”

Keamy grins in a feral way. “I never said I wasn’t a mercenary.”

“Clearly.” Ben looks at Alex kneeling on the ground, tear lines down her face. “Alex, come here,” he says.

Keamy taps his gun into the back of her head. “Alex, stay there.”

“Keamy…”

“Nope. I think Alex is going to come along with us as insurance. The way I hear it, Ben, you’re a bit of an asshole. So who knows what you might try?”

“I might say the same about you.”

Keamy chuckles. “Yeah, but who has the gun right now?”

“Regardless of who may or may not be armed, I am not coming with you if my daughter is involved. You have me out of the house, she can go.” Ben starts to walk forward toward Alex. “I would think several men with guns should be able to handle me without the use of a sixteen year old girl?”

Keamy makes a nonplussed face and nods. “You know, Ben, you’re right.”

So Keamy shoots Alex in the head.

Grace suddenly grips Harold’s arm tightly. “Harold, what’s wrong? What is it?”

Harold looks at her in surprise. “What?” Then he realizes he is hyperventilating and his cup of tea is shattered on Grace’s kitchen floor. “I… I don’t…”

She reaches up and Harold feels her wiping tears off his face. “What’s wrong?” She repeats. “Are you… you’re shaking…”

“I don’t know.” Harold tries to slow his breathing as Grace holds onto his trembling hands. “I don’t know.”

Ben is moving before he even thinks about it. His heart is racing, his breathing is fast and his telescopic baton is extended in his hand. Keamy is swinging his gun arm up from where it was still pointed at Alex’s prone form on the ground. Ben reaches him first, hitting Keamy with a crack in the knee. Keamy shouts in pain, falling part way and then Ben hits him again in the chest so Keamy falls to the ground. Ben slams his knee into Keamy’s chest, pinning him to the ground.

“Get this fucker off me!” Keamy shouts a second before Ben hits him in the face, breaking his nose.

“Just try and shoot me,” Ben spits out, baton raised again. “I dare you!”

Then something hits Ben in the side of the head and his vision turns black.

Harold has to try three times to get the key in his front door. He rushes on muscle memory to the third floor and turns on the radio. He taps his foot impatiently at it takes its time to power up. Once it is finally ready he puts in the code for the island and waits at it connects.

“Come on, Ben, what’s wrong?” Harold whispers.

Harold waits and waits but no one picks up on the other end.

Ben was quite prepared to fight his way through Keamy and four other mercenaries which were taking him to the helicopter. After all, as Keamy said, Charles wants him alive. However, Kate, Sayid and John came to the rescue along with Richard and the others to save him the trouble.

Now, Ben and John are at The Orchid to move the island. Ben has not been to The Orchid station in years, only once or twice since he betrayed Dharma. Richard took him once to tell him about the wheel override for the movement of the island hidden behind the Dharma walls. Richard described it as a ‘light encased in ice.’ Ben has not actually seen it himself but he knows where it is.

“You know he said specifically not to put anything metal in there,” John asks as Ben steps out of the vault after placing a small metal table inside.

Ben stares at him and nods. Then they hear the sound of the elevator moving back toward the surface.

“You expecting someone?” John asks glibly.

“May I have my weapon back?” Ben asks in return.

“One of your people?” John guesses as he hands Ben his baton.

“One of them.” Ben moves and turns the lights back out. He then switches the video back on to draw them in. “Here." Ben opens a locker against the wall. Then he points to an alcove. “You there. We can get the drop on them.”

“Can’t we talk to them?” John says.

Ben huffs a laugh. “I believe you saw how well that turned out last time.”

Ben climbs into the locker and closes the door. He hears Locke move just as the elevator reaches the ground. The door opens and Ben hears Keamy’s voice.

“I know you’re down here, Ben! Hiding in the dark, just waiting to take a shot at me.” 

Ben breathes in slowly, his hand tight on his baton as he hears Keamy moving around The Orchid.

“You better aim for the head, Ben!” Keamy shouts, moving away from where Ben hides. “Not like your boyfriend who shot me in the back, like a coward! This body armor’s been known to take a bullet or two in its time.”

Keamy sounds like he has made it into the main room for the moment. Then Ben hears his feet move back toward them.

“Let me ask you a question, Ben,” Keamy says. “What makes you so fucking special, huh? Why is Mr. Widmore paying me so much money to bring you back alive?” He is close. “Me, I don’t see the point.” Now Ben can see Keamy through the slats of the locker. “I’d rather have just shot you between the eyes, kind of like I did your daughter.”

Ben sees John step out into the space of the hall. Keamy turns to look at him. “Who are you?”

“I’m John Locke.”

Ben will not wait any longer, all he can see behind his eyes is Alex. He bangs open the door of the locker. Keamy turns in surprise so Ben hits him across the chest with his baton. Keamy falls down to one knee, clearly wounded from Ben’s past rescue. Ben hits him again across the face so the knife in Keamy’s hand clatters to the floor. Ben snatches it up and raises his arm.

“Wait, wait!” Keamy says as he pulls back one sleeve of his coat. “What about this?” Ben just narrows his eyes. “Life insurance policy.” Keamy grins. “It’s a heart rate monitor. If my heart stops then all the C4 I wired to it on that freighter will explode.”

Ben cocks his head. “So?”

He stabs Keamy in the chest. Blood coats his hand almost instantly. Ben crouches overs over Keamy, stabs him again and again – he wants to stab Keamy until the knife hits the concrete. But suddenly Ben is pulled back and shoved away. John kneels down beside Keamy, says something to Ben, asking him to help, tries to stop the flow of blood. Ben, however, leans back against the wall and watches until Keamy dies.

“You just killed everyone on that boat!” John says accusingly to Ben.

Ben frowns. “He killed my daughter.”

Harold wakes up with a groan, his eyes blurry. He feels around for his glasses then puts them on again once he finds them. He is still seated in front of the radio transmitter. He tried to make contact a dozen times through the night. Eventually he just left the line open. Harold takes the headphones off his head and rubs his hand absently at the marks they left in his skin.

“Where are you, Ben?” Harold says. 

He stands up and checks his watch. It is almost afternoon which should not be so surprising as Harold remembers seeing four in the morning go by. Harold blows out a breath and paces a few times in front of the transmitter. He does not know what to do. If he cannot contact the island, he cannot get to Ben because there is no way for him to get there himself. Something is obviously wrong, Harold still feels an odd ache in chest – like something dark and bottomless.

Then Harold thinks of it. “The Machine…” It is unlikely, it is a long shot and Harold knows he should not use the Machine for his own ends. “But one time…” Harold says out loud. 

The Machine can only see New York City right now and Harold knows there are no cameras on the island which the Machine could access. But perhaps Harold could find something, anything; information about Dharma or Charles Widmore that could help him.

“One time,” Harold tells himself then he gasps sharply at a sudden pain in his arm.

Ben hits the ground hard as the ladder down into the ice cave breaks. He hisses in pain and finds a bloody rip in the parka. He sees exposed nails up on the broken ladder but there is nothing he can do about it now. Ben gets to his feet and pulls a pack of matches from his coat pocket, lighting a lamp hanging on the wall. He stares at the ice wheel in front of him then steps forward and puts his hands on two of the spokes. Ben wonders if the whole reason he was brought to this island was to one day end up right here or is this really his punishment, as he told John, because he was not strong enough?

He looks up and says, “I hope you’re happy now, Jacob.”

Ben pushes the spokes but it does not budge. He turns back and picks up the crowbar he brought. He hacks with it at the ice coating the wheel. Then he shoves the crowbar into a hole at the end of one spoke and uses it as leverage to push the wheel. It takes a moment but finally he hears a groan of wood and the wheel starts to move. Ben throws out the crowbar and pushes with both hands on one spoke. 

He thinks about when he was nine and Harold was ripped away from him. He thinks about his father, about meeting Richard in the jungle, about the first time he shot someone. He thinks about Juliet, her smile, about his mother, about Harold sitting at Ben’s dining room table. He thinks about Alex as a baby, as a toddler who would crawl into his bed at night when she was scared of the dark. He thinks about the sound of the wind in the jungle and the view near the peak of the volcano.

Then light begins to pour out from the crack in the ice until it envelopes Ben.

And hundreds of miles away on a New York City street, Harold crumples to the ground unconscious.


	9. And then there was one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That is what it is, Harold is sure – the absence is extremely acute._
> 
> [Harold survives for ten months alone and Ben...]

Harold wakes up hyperventilating. He opens and closes his eyes over and over again but the world around him keeps spinning. He feels sweat on his skin but he is so cold.

“What’s happening?” Harold gasps, barely able to speak he breathes so quickly. He does not know where he is. “What is happening?”

Harold feels alone. He has never felt this alone in his life. He spends much of his time by himself, only a few people he really ever wants to see; being by himself is not an abnormality. But now he is alone. He feels like the only person in the world.

“What is happening?” Harold gasps again, his eyes still unfocused, the room swirling in front of him.

He kicks blankets off of his legs because he is lying on a bed. The bed feels unfamiliar – not his house, his loft, his apartment or Grace’s house. He reaches out and grips a bar on the side of his bed. He must be in a hospital.

“Harold?” The voice sounds far away, like it already happened or… no, maybe it has not happened yet.

“I’m cold…” Harold gasps. “I was… I’m cold.”

“You’re burning up.” Someone touches his forehead. “Nurse!”

Harold gasps hard, another layer over his already haggard breathing, and he suddenly notices tears running over his cheeks. “What is happening?” He gasps again. 

But he is not really asking. The longer he breathes, the more his eyes attempt to focus, Harold realizes whatever is happening is not him; it is Ben. 

“Where is Ben?” Harold asks because he cannot think straight – did he already ask this? Has this already happened? “Where is Ben?” 

“Who is Ben? Harold, you have to calm down!”

The voice is Nathan. Nathan is standing beside his hospital bed. Or he was. Or he will be. Harold cannot really see him because the room keeps moving. He is so nauseous. He sees the wall across from him, a chart with his name, a date. Then the wall changes and the date moves forward. He cannot see clearly again and he wonders where his glasses are. It feels as though his feet will not touch the ground. 

Harold sucks in air, slows his breathing somewhat. “Where is Ben? Where is he?”

Harold tries to reach out, tries to grab onto Ben because he must to be there somewhere. He has to be there. Ben has to be out there. Yet Harold cannot feel anything. He cannot feel Ben at all. It is not as if he usually can. Their connection is not some sort of conscious link but the absence – and that is what it is, Harold is sure – the absence is extremely acute.

“What is wrong, Harold? Nurse! Calm down!” Nathan’s hands are on Harold’s arms, maybe or maybe they were.

Now Harold feels hot, so hot, like a sudden sun burn or being deep fried. His head hurts, like he fell, like he flew and dropped down from the sky.

“Harold, what is it? Shit, you’re cold now. Harold? Stop. Stop it, calm down!”

Harold feels as though rusty pliers ripped half his soul out of his body leaving infection in their wake. Were he and Ben wrong all these years? Is this is what one of them dying feels like?

“Stop, Harold. Please, stop!” Harold sees Nathan for a moment beside him – that pinstripe suit Nathan only wears when the others are all at the cleaners. Harold sees vividly for one solid moment that Nathan is crying too. “Please stop, Harold. Please stop screaming!”

Harold realizes he is screaming.

––––––––––––––––

…

––––––––––––––––

“You can’t just sit behind your computer and hide from me, Harold!” Nathan finally shouts so Harold looks up.

“What do you want me to say, Nathan?” Harold rasps, his fingers still typing.

Harold knows he must look terrible if he looks half of what he feels – still nauseous, the room tilted just to the wrong side. He shivers right now but no doubt he will start sweating in twenty minutes. He tries to focus on the Machine, on work, but the code blurs in front of his eyes. Sometimes he forgets to keep his hands moving; sometimes the nausea eclipses all his focus and his arm throbs in pain pushing back everything else.

“I was with you in the hospital that night, Harold.” Nathan stands close on the other side of Harold’s monitor. “You can’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

Nathan stands up straight out of his aggressive, leaning stance. He crosses his arms, paces back and forth twice then throws up his arms. “Well, you sure aren’t telling the truth, Harold!”

Harold yanks his hands away from his keyboard, a shudder running through him and he covers his eyes under his glasses with one hand. “I don’t know what to tell you, Nathan.”

“Tell me what happened!”

“I don’t know,” Harold groans, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve told you. I don’t know what happened.”

“That’s crap, Harold.” Harold drops his hand as Nathan steps toward him again, pointing almost violently. “You are the most level headed and logical person I know. You did not have some sort of psychotic break or anything the doctors were trying to say to fill in their god damn sheets.”

“Please calm down, Nathan.” 

Harold wants to lie on the cool floor to make it stop pitching back and forth around him. Nathan appears at points as though he moves in slow motion then suddenly speeds up again as he moves toward Harold.

“Who is Ben?”

Harold’s vision focuses to a point.

“Well, Harold? That’s not the first time I’ve heard that name. You’ve side stepped it before but now you’ve said it again, screamed it even.”

“Ben is a common name,” Harold tries.

Nathan abruptly stops moving and stares hard at Harold. Harold almost forgets how nauseous he feels for a moment with the vehemence in Nathan’s look.

“If you give me one more half-truth, Harold, I swear I will smash every server in this room!”

“I’m sorry, Nathan,” Harold admonishes, “I don’t know what happened. I’m the one who woke up confused in that hospital room.”

“But you didn’t see yourself, Harold.” Nathan’s voice turns weak and fearful. “You didn’t see your face. I couldn’t… you were terrified.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t know! You were delirious!” Nathan snaps. “You didn’t ask for me, Harold. You didn’t ask for your mother or father or anything like that. You asked ‘where is Ben?’” Nathan cocks his head to the side. “So who the hell is Ben?”

Harold shakes his head and has to grip the edge of his desk. 

“Did he do that to you?” Nathan continues. “Was it is his fault?”

“No.” Nathan’s eyes widen at Harold’s brief acknowledgement of Ben. “Well... he could be. I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Then simplify it for me, Harold.”

“I…” Harold looks away, his head aching. He does not know how to tell Nathan, after years of essentially lying by omission, the truth.

“I am not sure I have ever been so frightened in my life, Harold.” Harold looks up at Nathan again. Nathan’s shoulders sag like the air has gone out of him. “I thought… I don’t know, Harold, but I was afraid maybe you were going to die. I had no idea what was going on.”

“I know; I’m sorry.”

“Hours, Harold… your face, you were.” Nathan cuts himself off abruptly and looks away from Harold. Harold hears Nathan take a deep breath in and out. Then he looks sharply back at Harold. “It was like torture, Harold, watching you like that with no idea what had happened or what I could do to help.”

Harold knows he could never have a better friend than Nathan Ingram; Nathan deserves the truth.

“Please, Harold, just tell me something!” Nathan insists.

“You won’t believe me,” Harold admits quietly.

“About what happened or about this Ben?”

“Both.”

Nathan steps close and perches on the edge of the desk. “At this point I’ll believe almost anything, Harold.”

“You say that, Nathan…”

Nathan crosses his arms and waits. “So?”

Harold swallows once then looks Nathan in the eye. “Ben is my twin brother.” Nathan’s eyes widen. Harold smiles once then clears his throat. “And sometimes we can feel what the other feels, if we are hurt or intense emotions.”

Nathan stares at Harold for two beats then his mouth falls open slightly. “A month ago when you ran out of here holding your shoulder?”

Harold nods. “Yes.” Harold rubs a hand across his head as his vision blurs again, the world spiraling until Nathan puts a hand on his arm. Harold opens eyes he did not know he had closed and looks up at Nathan. “I think something has happened to him. I don’t know what but…” Harold swallows once. “It’s like Ben is gone.”

––––––––––––––––

And…

––––––––––––––––

Harold breathes heavily with his forehead resting on his forearm propped up on the edge of his toilet. He tries to slow his breathing to keep the nausea at bay. His knees on the tiled floor ache. Harold’s watch tells him conflicting stories of hours past and twenty minutes yet before he first rushes into the bathroom.

“It’s okay,” Harold whispers to himself. “It’s okay.”

Then his stomach twists and Harold pulls himself up to heave into the toilet again. He thinks that this must have been college for many people in America. Then Harold collapses backward against the wall, half underneath his free standing sink. Harold sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Sweat beads at his hairline and Harold wipes it away onto his white shirt sleeve.

“Please stop…” Harold says, blowing out a breath. 

Harold pulls at his tie because he is so hot. Is his vomiting, this sickness, causing his change in internal temperature so often or is Ben in some climate loop? Then Harold jolts, nearly throwing up on himself with the sudden rise of nausea, but he makes it to the toilet in time; though there is little left in his stomach at this point. Harold reaches up and flushes the toilet, his forehead against the cool porcelain seat. Such constant nausea must be worse than pain.

“Please stop, Ben,” Harold gasps.

He closes his eyes and sees ice at the base of an old wooden ladder.

Harold opens his eyes and stands. He is not going to throw up again. He turns to his sink and picks up his toothbrush. In the mirror, the face looking back at him seems ten years older.

“Great,” Harold mutters as he puts toothpaste on his toothbrush.

Downstairs in Harold’s living room, Harold collapses into his old brown couch. He has been spending more time at his ‘Harold Finch’ townhouse. Neither Nathan nor Grace knows about this house and this is the one place which has a connection to the island. He keeps hoping that maybe that radio will start to beep and Ben’s voice will be on the other end. He tried over and over to connect with no result but he cannot give up hope yet.

“We said we would die together,” Harold says out loud as he watches the pink flowers of the dogwood tree outside the window blow in the breeze.

Harold sits up again. His stomach is calmer but he still feels a low level nausea every day now. A chill runs through his arms. Harold recognizes the signs now of his forced change in temperature. He stands up to go find himself a sweater when the room shifts. He stumbles and hits his shin on the coffee table. Harold hisses in pain and clutches at his leg. When he looks up, Ben stands in his hallway.

“Ben!” Harold gasps.

The front door hangs open and Harold sees autumn leaves outside collecting in wind swirled piles on the sidewalk. Ben’s mouth moves but Harold cannot hear what he says. It is as if he is miming.

“Ben,” Harold repeats as he stands up straight.

Ben smiles though the expression looks more sad. Then Harold takes a step toward Ben; his shin stabs once sharply with pain making Harold wince. When he opens his eyes again, a nanosecond later, Ben is gone and the world beyond Harold’s window shows spring once more.

Harold turns his head left then right. He rotates in place then steps into the hallway and tries the front doorknob, still locked. “Ben?” He rushes down the hall to the kitchen. “Ben?” He comes back down the hall, peeks quickly into the bathroom then climbs the stairs. “Ben!”

There is no one in the house. Harold is alone.

––––––––––––––––

And Ben…

––––––––––––––––

Harold and Grace walk through Central Park on the edge of the Ramble. Grace carries her sketch book and some graphite under one arm. She says she wants to do a painting of Harold if he would only sit still. They have been walking for half an hour but Harold already aches. He stares at each bench they pass by. Some time ago, maybe ten minutes, Grace took his arm and not just for the companionship. She notices. Harold has tried jogging around the reservoir, exercising on his treadmill in the Machine server space but nothing will stave off this weak feeling. 

“We can stop,” Grace says.

Harold smiles at her. “No, you wanted to go to the lake.”

Grace shrugs. “I don’t mind. We’ve seen it before.” She smiles in a fond way. “We have plenty of time to see the whole park together.”

Harold chuckles. “It is a big park.”

“Plus, I need to start my concept sketches and I can’t do that walking.” She touches his face. “You’re not going to make me work from memory are you?”

Harold turns his cheek away from her hand. His skin burns right now and not from the summer weather. “Perhaps a photograph then.”

Grace makes a skeptical noise. “You cannot date an artist and expect to not be the subject of at least one work.” She squeezes his arm. “Probably more than one.”

Harold glances at her. She is trying to distract him; to make him laugh with her instead of be in pain. How does she know he is in pain? Does he look that bad? She has not even asked him if something is wrong.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “I can embellish it to make you more handsome if you like.” She really means ‘don’t worry, I’m here.’

Harold knows in that moment he loves her.

“You haven’t told me much about your family.”

Harold frowns at the change of topic and turns to Grace sitting to his right on her pastel couch. Harold blinks slowly as he looks up at the room around them. Sun shines past red curtains in the window beyond Grace. He sees an easel with a half-finished robin on the canvas and a table with paints beside it. The glass of water is gray but still. On the wall are framed pieces of art, a few Harold recognizes as Grace’s style. Then he looks down at the low table in front of the couch. He sees a note pad with some sort of list, two bullet points scribbled out.

“Harold?”

“Yes?” Harold asks cautiously as he turns back to Grace.

“I asked about your family. You haven’t really talked about them but if there is anyone you would want to invite…”

“Invite?” Harold says in confusion.

She chuckles and shakes her head. “Head off in the clouds?” She puts down her pen on top of the note pad and Harold briefly sees the words, ‘venue’ and ‘flowers.’ “Harold, you don’t need to worry. We’re not going to make it a big thing; I wouldn’t want that either.”

Harold frowns. “Make what a big thing?”

Grace laughs again and her hand touches his thigh. Sunlight glints off the ring on her finger.

“Harold?”

Harold sucks in a deep breath as he stumbles on the path. Grace grips his arm tightly then pulls him forcefully over to a bench beneath one of the large rock faces characteristic of Central Park. She puts a hand against his forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“It’s hot out here,” Harold says absently.

“Not this hot.” She sighs. “You are sick, Harold. We should –”

“What did you ask me just now?” Harold interrupts her. “Just a moment ago.”

“About a painting of you?” She sighs. “I won’t paint you if it really upsets you so much.”

“No,” Harold shakes his head, “not that.”

Grace frowns and glances behind them as if the words Harold looks for may be hanging in the air. “What, about stopping? You looked like you –”

“No,” Harold cuts her off again. “You asked about my family.”

Grace chuckles. “I haven’t, but I would like to know sometime if you want to tell me. I know how private you are, Harold. I don’t mind waiting.”

Harold opens his mouth to protest but closes it again. She smiles at him, no confusion at their scenery shifting from Central Park to her house then back again. He nods instead of continuing his line of questing. “Thank you.”

He looks down at her hand. She does not wear any type of ring. Harold feels a lurch in his stomach for once not related to nausea. Harold starts to suspect.

––––––––––––––––

And Ben land…

––––––––––––––––

“Proof can be relative in terms of crime.”

“In terms of terrorism,” Harold clarifies.

Nathan waves a ‘same thing’ hand in the air without looking up from his computer. “The point is we need to refine relevance. Some of the things the Machine is dragging in here are nothing.”

“Are you sure of that, Nathan? Are we just not making the connections the Machine does?”

Nathan looks up at that and gives Harold a nonplussed face. “The Machine tells us the connections, Harold. We agreed, social security numbers only to the government, but from there they can find–”

“Yes, yes.” Harold rolls his shoulders, his body aching as his new usual. “But we need all the proof the Machine finds to be relevant so we are sure. If the thread is too thin, too seemingly irrelevant, how will the government follow that trail?”

Nathan laughs once. “Always the cynical one of our pair, aren’t you, Harold?”

“I’m realistic.”

“Always,” Nathan emphasizes. “We have the full NSA feeds now, Harold. The Machine’s reach is massive and thus so is the intelligence it gathers.” 

“Yes.” Harold frowns as he types. They have built such a high functioning machine that the translation back to human terms is difficult. “The Machine needs to be able to define actionable intelligence versus assumptions on a threat.”

“Machines don’t ‘assume,’ Harold.”

“But suspicious activity which the Machine detects may not be enough to prove terrorist plans or future actions, at least as far as the federal government will believe.”

Nathan rubs a hand over the back of his neck, smile wide and eyes tried. “Touché, Mr. Wren.”

Harold looks back down at his computer. The coding space where Harold worked moments ago now appears thousands of lines ahead. His fingers type quickly through a different code set. The function appears to be a restrictive measure on the Machine’s memory. He codes another line, selects a reboot time of midnight. 

“There have to limits to your growth,” Harold hears himself say. “And so you stop protecting me.”

“What, Harold?” Nathan asks.

Harold’s fingers freeze in place. The new function is erroneously placed in the middle of a chuck of code, not the thousands of lines ahead but right where he had been working, out of place and months ahead of Harold’s current coding process. There are methods within the code Harold does not recognize, has not thought of yet. Why was he even coding that function?

“I…”

A text box appears on his screen.

ADMIN HAS CREATED ANOMALOUS CODE.

“I don’t…”

NEW FUNCTION CREATES BAD CODE: LINES 1,845-1,867.

“Are you all right, Harold?” Nathan asks and now he really looks at Harold. “Is this… are you feeling sick again?”

Harold sits up straight and deletes the new code as quickly as he can. Nathan stands up and comes around to Harold’s side of the desk. He glances at Harold’s computer, all code back in place, then looks at Harold.

“What is it? Is it that feeling you, uh… about…” Nathan shifts his weight and his gaze shifts toward the floor. “Ben?”

Harold shakes his head. “No.” He watches Nathan’s face, the tension in his jaw. “No, I’m fine, Nathan.”

Nathan’s eyes tick back up to Harold. He nods once. Then he tilts his head. “You can tell me, Harold. I might not understand it but I am your friend.”

Harold looks at his computer screen. The text box now says:

OPTIMIAL FUNCTION CODING RESTORED.

He closes the text box and turns to Nathan again.

“You are my friend, Nathan, and I know you’re still not sure if you believe me.” Nathan opens his mouth but Harold holds up a hand. “That’s not the point. The point is we still have work to do and we can both focus on that.”

Harold turns around to face his computer again, hands back on the keys. He feels Nathan watch him for a few seconds then Nathan steps back and moves away. Harold breathes out a slow breath. He shivers once then pulls his suit jacket from off the back of his chair onto his shoulders again. 

Harold thinks he knows what is happening now, though it makes no sense. These moments are flashes of his future.

––––––––––––––––

And Ben lands on…

––––––––––––––––

Harold and Nathan sit side by side in Nathan’s apartment. The wooden chairs press hard against Harold’s back. The long table in front of them is empty except for two glasses and a bottle of scotch. The city of New York glows in front of them as the sun has finally set on the anniversary of September 11th. They cannot see the site where the towers once stood from Nathan’s window. Below cars move over the streets and lights illuminate thousands of windows in office buildings and apartments. New York remains the same as the day before yet it still feels quieter.

“We were sitting just like this that day,” Nathan says. “It was scotch then too.”

Harold leans forward, picks up the bottle and pours three fingers into each of their glasses. He says nothing.

“We said if we don’t change the world…”

“Someone else will,” Harold finishes as he picks up the glasses, handing one to Nathan.

“Well, we have, Harold.” Nathan takes a gulp of his drink. “None of them know it.” He points at the window with his hand holding the glass. “But we have changed it forever. The Machine can see all of them now, can see us.” He waves a hand at nonexistent cameras in his apartment.

“Because we want to protect them,” Harold says.

“But are we really doing the right thing?”

“Of course we are, Nathan. We are doing what is needed.”

Harold turns to look at Nathan and sees another man in Nathan’s place. “Are we, Finch?” he says.

Harold tenses but stays silent. The man looks away from Harold out the window across from where they sit. The sky outside is the same dark night with the same city lights except a fire burns in the fireplace casting a glow about the room. The stranger sits the same height as Nathan but with far more hard edges than Nathan’s alcohol padded softness. Gray hair peppers the man’s temples though Harold is sure he is younger than Harold. The man twists an empty glass around in his hand. Harold looks down and sees the same type of glass in his own hand.

“If the drives they have work, Finch, then couldn’t this lead to a war?” He looks at Harold now, holds up the empty glass. “Is saving lives worth putting more in jeopardy?”

“Protecting everyone is our priority,” Harold tries for a non-answer.

The man makes a vague scoffing noise. Then he leans forward and puts the empty glass on the table. “If Samaritan goes on line I think it will turn into our priority. You said it would be an open system unlike the Machine.” He sits back against the chair again staring at the cityscape. “No limits.”

“Samaritan…” Harold repeats quietly in confusion.

“And what exactly is it going to do, Finch?” He shakes his head. Then he turns and looks at Harold. “What were you thinking when you built the Machine?”

“That the world needed better protection.” 

The man only stares at him, like all the answers lie with Harold.

Harold clears his throat and decides to follow his instincts. “Where were you on that day?”

“You know where I was, Finch.”

Harold clenches his teeth. “Well, I was here.” He leans forward and puts the glass on the table. “I was in New York. I was in a room by myself. I did not even know the attack had happened until Nathan came and told me that evening. But sitting there…” Harold reaches out his hand for a moment as if this man really is Nathan still beside him. Then he pulls back. “Sitting there we knew we had to do something and I am not sorry we are, no matter what world this might be.”

The man gives him a strange look. “Despite everything that’s happened now or what might happen?”

Harold wants to ask him what year it is, who he is and what ‘everything’ has happened. Instead he says to this stranger sitting beside him in Nathan’s place, “we wanted to change the world for the better.”

The man smiles in a fond way, as fond as Nathan would be, and for a moment Harold wonders just where Nathan lies in this future. He wonders who this man is to him.

“I think you did change it, Finch.” The man shrugs. “But you weren’t the only one who tried.”

“Then tell me how to stop whatever it is from happening,” Harold suddenly asks urgently. The man frowns in confusion. “Tell me what I can do to prevent it!” If Harold is seeing his future then there must be a reason.

“Finch, you said –”

“Not now!” Harold snaps, leaning forward, and the man’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “Then! Tell me what I can do to prevent it then. I am not doing this all for nothing. Are you telling me that now all my work is only going to backfire?”

The man reaches out and touches Harold’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Are you all right, Finch? Something is wrong…”

Harold sags back against the chair, his body feeling stiff and pained. “Just tell me what is happening,” he whispers. “Tell me what happened to Ben.”

“Harold?” Harold blinks and Nathan stares at him. He pulls his hand away from Harold’s forehead. Nathan swallows once and repeats, “Harold?”

“Nathan.”

Nathan sighs. “I was worried for a moment there you might…” He clears his throat. “Are you all right?”

 _‘No,’_ Harold thinks. “Yes,” he says instead. 

When is this going to stop?

––––––––––––––––

And Ben lands on his back in the Sahara desert gasping as Harold breathes in sharply in New York City feeling no longer ill and displaced but whole once more.


	10. New York, New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"This is our chance, Ben, to spend time together. Forget our past disagreements. Do what you need to do and so will I but,” he smiles, “my house is your house when you need it. I want you there.”_  
>     
> [Ben and Harold live together in New York while Harold completes the Machine and Ben battles Charles Widmore in the shadows.]

To Ben, cold and hot at once lying in the sand of the Sahara with a deep cut still throbbing on his arm, only one day has passed since his daughter was murdered in front of him and he left his home, possibly forever, in order to protect it.

When Ben flies to Baghdad then drives a hundred and forty miles to Tikrit to find the man he knows will be watching Sayid, only two days have passed since Ben tried to do the right thing and it blew up bloody in his face.

When Sayid shoots Widmore’s man Bakir until his gun is empty then asks Ben for more, only three days have passed since Alex called him daddy and begged for her life which Ben failed to give her.

When Ben walks self-assured through the lobby of Charles Widmore’s penthouse building, only four days have passed since Ben stabbed the man who shot his daughter to death with no regard to the other lives sacrificed to do so.

When Ben stands in front of Charles Widmore lying in his bed for the first time in more than ten years and tells Charles he plans to kill Charles’ daughter, only four days and five minutes have passed since Ben left his daughter’s body behind for the sake of an island that is practically all he has left.

“You’re forgetting, Benjamin,” Charles says as Ben is turning for the door. “You do in fact have one other thing in that dark heart of yours which you care about.” Ben raises an eyebrow. “A certain identical brother.” 

Ben stares intently at Charles. “But you won’t find him, Charles.” Ben cocks his head. “Just like you won’t find the island.”

“That island’s mine, Benjamin, it always was. It will be again.” Charles sneers. “If you think my Penny is fair game then your brother is too.” He leans back against the headboard of his bed. “The hunt is on for both of us.”

Ben nods once. “I suppose it is. Sleep tight, Charles.”

When Ben knocks on Harold’s townhouse door with fall leaves swirling behind him, only five days have passed since Ben lost the one other person Ben cared about most in the world as his brother.

When Harold opens the door Ben says, “They murdered my daughter.”

 

The two of them stand silently across from each other in Harold’s front hall, exactly like what Harold saw months ago when it was still spring. Ben watches the confusion shift back and forth over Harold’s face as Harold tries to shake off the buzz in his ears. Harold heard what Ben said, about his daughter, but Harold cannot move past his own ten months.

“Where have you been?’ Harold croaks out.

Ben frowns deeply and points toward the still open door. “Did you hear what I said, Harold?”

“I heard you,” Harold continues and steamrolls over Ben. “But I thought... I thought you might be dead.”

“How could I have been dead, Harold?” He gestures vaguely toward Harold.

“We don't know that for sure, do we?”

“Harold...”

“Do we!” Ben's mouth snaps shut as Harold stares at him. “How was I to know? You were gone!” Harold cannot keep the bottled up panic inside any longer. “Just gone! Every single day I felt… Do you have any idea what the last year has been like for me?”

“It hasn't recently been a picnic for me either, Harold,” Ben says, harsh and cold.

Just as sudden as his rush of righteous anger, Harold deflates again, Ben's dead daughter like a very real ghost between them. They watch each other. Ben is not angry, at least not at Harold.

“Where were you?” Harold asks calmly this time.

Ben sighs. “Would you believe me if I told you I traveled through time?”

“Yes,” Harold replies frankly. Ben frowns in genuine surprise. Harold presses his lips together then raises his eyebrows. “It hasn’t been just you.”

Ben’s eyes widen this time. “You?”

Harold nods. “Off and on, small moments but…” Harold breathes in and blows out the air slowly. “It’s been.” He tilts his head and frowns. “Illuminating?”

“As for me,” Ben says, “2004 was only about a week ago.” Ben makes a strained face he knows fails at appearing unaffected. “The year did not end so brightly.”

“Alex?” Harold asks even though Ben already told him. 

Ben nods once sharply, his eyes not quite on Harold but instead seeing Alex lying in the grass. “And…” Ben laughs in a short, hollow way. “And the island.” He focuses on Harold now. “I moved the island.”

“You moved the…”

“Island,” Ben finishes for him. “To protect it; but if you move the island you can’t go back,” Ben says with hand motions from side to side. He breathes in and heaves out a heavy breath as his arms fall down to his sides. “I can’t get back.”

Ben’s jaw clenches, he swallows once then Harold moves forward, circles his arms around Ben and holds him tight as Ben finally cries.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Harold walk along Central Park West, Central Park at Harold’s side and The Dakota on the corner at Ben’s side. Harold thinks the relationships to nature and city between the two of them appear swapped.

“To think people pay millions of dollars to live here,” Ben gestures toward the apartment building, “all for a view of nature in a city. Why not build themselves an expensive country home instead if they need the view so much?”

“Do you want to switch sides?” Harold asks sardonically. 

“You were the one thinking something about the polarity of our lives, nature versus society.”

Harold snorts a laugh. “Close, but not quite reading my mind.”

“And good for us both.”

Harold frowns. “Why? Would I dislike what you’re thinking now?”

Ben glances at Harold and smiles. “No.”

The two of them hold coffee and tea in hand while walking to nowhere. They have spent so little time in their lives together without some rushed conversation or time limit that just a walk seems like a luxury. Harold grips Ben’s arm briefly and turns them left into the park, the pavement slick from the weather. Ben looks up at the trees, a slight dusting of snow over the leaves and flurries still in the air.

“I’m thinking,” Ben picks up on their meandering conversation, “I haven’t seen snow in years.” Ben brushes his hand over the snowflakes turned to water in Harold’s hair. “I’d forgotten what it was like.”

“Cold and wet.”

Ben chuckles. “Quiet.”

Harold glances up at the gray clouds, the snow barely sticking to the trees and none on the pavement. “Sometimes.”

They both lift their drinks and sip their hot beverages together. They glance once at each other but continue to walk into the park in silence. Though the weather is marginally dreary and cold out, the park still boasts a fair number of joggers, individuals cutting through on their path to warmer prospects and parents attempting to control their children on a day out. They walk side by side, drinks carried on their outside hands so as they walk they knock their knuckles against each other, entirely on purpose. Harold needs a reminder that Ben exists while Ben needs to know one thing still remains to him. 

“Do you ever miss the island, Harold?”

“I miss you,” Harold replies after a few steps. “I miss being together but I don’t miss the place.” Harold taps his fingertips against Ben’s. “Do you miss land, a real city?”

“I don’t remember living in one much at all.” He glances at Harold. “And maybe I’m just not a city person.”

Harold chuckles. “I doubt many people classify themselves as ‘jungle people.’”

“How American of you, Harold.”

Harold shoots Ben a half-hearted glare and they both drink from their cardboard cups again. They cross over West Drive and continue down the pedestrian path, away from the driving streets through the park. Harold watches Ben as they walk, his eyes drifting between the trees and rocks, never the buildings beyond.

“I have things I need to do,” Ben says in response to Harold’s watchful gaze. “Things I need to attend to.”

“Are you going to try and get back to the island?” Harold asks.

“I told you I can’t go back.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Ben takes another sip of his coffee, alone this time. “It’s my home, Harold.”

Harold looks away and takes a drink of his green tea. They walk further down the path in silence, a biker skirting too close to Ben as she goes by. Harold sees Cherry Hill Fountain in the distance, gray and mostly deserted.

“Are you going to stay?” Harold asks instead.

“With you?”

“Yes.”

“Is that wise?” Ben quickens their pace. “My plans are –”

“I don’t care. I am not exactly living a normal life myself, as you know.”

“And what about your friend? What about your Grace?”

Harold sighs. “Ben…”

“I told you I have things to do, Harold.” He knocks his hand against Harold’s. “Things which will take me away.”

“Ben, you don’t need to argue me out of what I asked you first when I know you want to stay.”

Ben looks at the ground in front of them, lost without the anchor of home. “May I?”

Harold brushes his hand against Ben’s then takes a larger step around so he stands in front of Ben’s path, stopping them both. “I’m asking you to. This is our chance, Ben, to spend time together. Forget our past disagreements. Do what you need to do and so will I but,” he smiles, “my house is your house when you need it. I want you there.”

Ben smiles and for a second he forgets that his daughter is dead and his island far away. “Thank you.” 

Harold smiles back. “Good.”

––––––––––––––––

“So, I end up painting New York a lot.”

Harold chuckles as Grace hands the canvas to him by the edges. “You do live here.”

“True.” She grins. “Doesn’t mean I’d have to paint it though. Some painters don’t work from life at all or are too busy looking to the past.”

“You favor the present?” Harold asks as he looks over the painted scene of a young girl reaching up for falling leaves on a New York City sidewalk.

“I love this city.” Harold looks up at her, another canvas in her hand. “There is always another angle I haven’t seen, another street that might be perfect under brush.”

Harold puts the canvas in his hands down on the coffee table and takes the next one from Grace’s hands. “Beautiful.” The painting shows a woman with hair wiping into her face as she walks over the Brooklyn Bridge.

“I don’t get to paint as much as I’d like.” She takes the painting out of his hand. “The money lies in illustrating so that’s what I do.”

“But you enjoy it?”

“Oh yes,” Grace nods. “It is wonderful to bring a story to life. I especially enjoy working with first time authors. I don’t think I could find a more appreciative audience then an author seeing their words in physical form.”

“Sidney Paget to Conan Doyle?”

Grace laughs out loud as she picks up the two canvases. She walks back to a closet, sliding the two paintings inside. “Maybe, but I have the advantage of color printing now.”

Harold nods. Then he waves his hand up at her walls. “You don’t have your working hanging up.” She purses her lips, glancing at the framed photographs; a few appear to be family but most are scenes of New York, a few Harold knows to be Venice and one he suspects is her home of South Carolina. “You must still have the originals of many of your illustrations.” He gestures toward the closet. “And your paintings.”

“I don’t know.” Grace waves her hands up in the air once then clasps them together. “It always seemed egotistical to me, surrounding myself with my own work?”

Harold shakes his head. “I wouldn’t say egotistical.”

“Not like those movie stars who have giant framed photos of themselves in their living rooms?”

“Not like that, no.” Harold laughs and slides his hands over hers. “It’s your art. It should be seen, not hidden in closets.”

Grace huffs but she is smiling. “By who? I have about the same amount of friends that you do.”

Harold chuckles. “I think you are still winning on that count.” The corners of her mouth quirk up. “And as for who could see them, I am standing in your parlor, aren’t I?”

The tension ebbs out of her like water and she smiles again, big and bright. “You make a good point.”

She gently pulls her hands out of Harold’s and walks over to a book case by the windows, art books on the bottom shelf while sketch books and paint boxes pepper the higher shelves. She pulls out one pale blue book and walks over to the couch. Harold sits beside her as she opens it on their laps. The pages include studies of animals, a good amount of hedgehogs and seals.

“Children’s books often have animal themes.”

“Perhaps we should visit the zoo.”

Grace looks up at him and cocks her head. “Not sure I can imagine you at a zoo.”

“No?” Harold shrugs. “Do I not look like an animal person?”

“Well, you wear such nice suits.” She turns back to the album; turning the pages until fully illustrated country scenes take over from the animals. Grace smiles in a nostalgic way.

Harold watches Grace as she turns the pages. He wonders if every day could be like this; breakfast in the morning while Grace paints him holding his mug of tea; late nights while Harold codes on his laptop and Grace falls asleep on his shoulder with paint on her fingers. They could sit together on this very couch, reading Emerson or Asimov.

“You should show me your work sometime, Harold,” Grace says.

Harold blinks twice to stop himself from frowning. “I don’t think coding is quite as picturesque as your work.

“Funny that we come from such opposite sides of the spectrum, art and technology?”

“Art contains a degree of math,” Harold points out, trying to steer the conversation down a more philosophical route. “And I have heard some call computer coding an art form.”

Grace nods. “I guess you could say that.” She turns another page though neither of them looks down any longer. “Maybe you should frame some of your coding and hang it up alongside my paintings,” she jokes.

“I don’t know about that.”

Grace closes the book. “And well your programing leads to something, things that are necessary in our lives.” She shrugs. “A very nice insurance website maybe?”

Harold tenses for a moment until he realizes she is joking again. Harold laughs once, a clipped and awkward sound. Fortunately, Grace does not notice. She kisses his cheek then stands up to place the sketch book back on the shelf. As she turns away, Harold’s smile falls. 

––––––––––––––––

Over dinner in Chinatown, Harold tells Ben about college while Ben tells Harold about leadership, the two of them swapping Mushu Pork and vegetable lo mein across the table.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits inside a café in the Queen Street West neighborhood of Toronto. The area reminds him of Harold if only for the SoHo-like atmosphere. However, the mass of ‘hip’ young twenty somethings make his teeth grind. He watches one woman, probably not much more than twenty-one, buy a leather purse across the street, hair long and thick like Alex’s.

“Interesting choice for a place to meet.”

Ben looks up at Sayid as he sits down across from Ben.

“Hiding in plain sight can be as beneficial as dark alleys.” Ben picks up his coffee and blows once on the hot liquid. “If you would prefer, I can find us an abandoned warehouse next time, Sayid.”

Sayid does not crack any semblance of a smile. “Let’s just get started. Do you have a name for me?”

Ben puts down his coffee, pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket and sides it across the glass table top to Sayid. Sayid picks up the piece of paper opens it and closes it two seconds later.

“Montreal?”

“You didn’t think I’d have you fly to Canada for somewhere else, did you?”

“Perhaps Toronto.”

Ben smiles. “Well, hiding in plain sight only goes so far.”

Sayid slips the paper into his coat pocket. “Anything else I should know?”

“Yes.” Ben hands Sayid a key. “There is a post office in Montreal, the address is on the key tag there. Box number 4815. It should help you with your name.”

“And?”

“And have a lovely trip,” Ben says with an over extenuated smile.

Sayid stands up and walks away from the table without even a ‘goodbye’ or a ‘thank you.’ Ben purses his lips then picks up his coffee again and takes a sip. The girl with Alex’s hair is gone now.

When Ben returns to Harold’s townhouse two days later, one name now crossed off the list, Ben finds it empty.

“Harold?”

Ben hangs up his coat by the door and drops his bag next to the hall table. No one answers his call. Ben already knew that, though. The house feels empty. Ben walks down the hall to the kitchen and starts pulling out all the pieces to make himself a coffee. It is after eight in the evening but he doubts he would fall asleep early anyway. He can’t.

Ben puts the water on to boil and adds some of Harold’s frozen coffee grounds to the French press. He knows that freezing the grounds supposedly keeps them fresh yet Ben finds it disconcerting; cold grounds for a hot drink? Ben pulls out the milk, picks up a mug from the cabinet and finds the sugar bowl. He lines them all up on the counter next to the stove as he waits. Ben watches the kettle and thinks ‘a watched pot.’ 

“But it does boil,” Ben says in answer to the phrase.

He paces to the left, leans against the counter then stands up straight again. Ben feels restless. He usually contains his emotions and his composure quite well, even in the face of betrayal, murder, and torture. However, he is alone now and there is no one to show for and no one to distract him.

“Working late, Harold?” Ben mutters.

He turns and walks down the hall away from the kitchen. The living room is still dark, though light comes in from the street lamps outside. It is never so bright at night on the island. They had area lights at the barracks but nowhere near as oppressive. The jungle needs only the moon and Ben never realized how different darkness was on the island. A city, especially New York, is never dark.

Ben scans the bookshelves. Some books appear to be old, likely first editions, while at least one whole bookcase boasts computer texts dating as far back as 1972. Most of the bookshelves hold only books, sometimes sheets of paper shoved in between, but one more sparsely filled shelf includes picture frames. Ben walks toward the bookcase on the other side of Harold’s brown couch. He sees an old photo of their mother, her eyes gazing somewhere beyond the camera. Two shelves down a photo of Harold and Nathan on Nathan’s wedding day sits beside a photo of Ben. Ben remembers giving the photo to Harold himself, just a photo of Ben on the island, the jungle behind him and smiling into the camera. Then Ben notices another frame, half wedged behind the photo of him. Ben reaches down and pulls it out. The photo is of Alex, ten or twelve years old, with hair in her face and a blue dress on, held up in Ben’s arms for the camera. Alex smiles at the camera while Ben looks only at her.

Ben does not realize he has sunk to the floor, the photo held tight against his chest, until he hears the whistle of the kettle from the kitchen.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits in front of his computer screen on the Machine server floor. It has become increasingly claustrophobic with the amount of servers filling the floor now. However, Harold finds it comforting more than anything, surrounded by his creation.

Currently, Harold works on safety measures for the Machine. Harold knows he must plan years in advance; must plan for all eventualities. What if something happens and the Machine shuts down? What if, somehow, the machine becomes infected with a virus and needs to reboot?

“A hard reset,” Harold mutters.

The tried and true ‘turn it off and turn it back on’ works for A.I.s just as standard computers. However, Harold would never want such a reboot to happen without his knowledge.

“Payphones.”

Harold looks up at Nathan leaning against one server.

Harold frowns. “Payphones?”

“You said about twenty minutes ago that we would need a way to know, even when the Machine is gone, that we would need a way for it to contact us ‘just in case.’” Nathan raises his eyebrows. “No one uses payphones anymore but they are still everywhere in the city.” He shrugs. “Pick a payphone, Harold.”

Harold grins. “You’re a genius, Nathan.”

Nathan just points at Harold. “No, that’s your job. I just add the icing to your cake.” Then he sighs heavily.

Harold frowns and looks at Nathan over his glasses as he continues to type. “Nathan?”

“I have a wedding to attend.”

Harold snorts. “Dust off your formal wear.”

“Olivia will be there.”

Harold stops typing and looks up at Nathan properly. “Yes?”

Nathan nods, his eyes on the floor. “I don’t know what I am going to say to her. Will talks about her when I see him. I know what she’s up to but... I haven’t seen her in…” He sighs again and stops speaking.

“It’ll be all right, Nathan.”

Nathan looks up sharply at Harold. The expression is not one Harold has not seen directed toward him from Nathan before; it is pity. Then Nathan turns away again without saying anything. Harold opens his mouth then shuts it, his fingers still on the keyboard. He wants to say something but nothing comes.

“What ever happened with you, Harold?” Nathan looks at him again. “With your brother?”

Harold abruptly turns back to his computer. “It’s fine now.”

“Fine?”

Harold looks up sharply at Nathan. “It’s fine.” Then he turns back to his computer ignoring Nathan’s look.

––––––––––––––––

Ben types quickly on one of Harold’s borrowed computers. Apparently it is a ‘clean’ computer and thus safe for Ben to use, whatever Harold meant by that. Ben reads an article on the Oceanic six. The article claims they arrived on Sumba in the Pacific Ocean via a life raft. It is possible they obtained a life raft from the freighter and floated the whole way. However, that is unlikely. They needed help.

“Who took you most of the way?”

Ben searches through docking records on Sumba. The island is small, no formal recording system for ships coming and going. He sees the now famous photograph of the group being helped ashore from the raft by fishermen.

“Really,” Ben snorts. It is so ridiculous as to be believable. “People love a good story.”

Ben follows the business records of the Oceanic six landing. He finds a link connecting to a government site for international boat travel. The site instructs visitors to the island to first obtain a permit before docking boats.

“Ah ha.” 

Ben picks up his phone and dials one of his contacts in Australia. The phone rings through to her voicemail.

“Kara, I need some assistance with boat records on Sumba. I know it is out of your way but I need to know if any British owned boats or Yachats were moored there in conjunction with the Oceanic six landing.”

Ben hangs up and leans back in his chair. The Oceanic six did not get to that island on their own and Penelope Widmore has been searching for Desmond for years.

“Were you there Ms. Widmore?” Ben mutters.

If Penny was the one who picked them up, there should be a boat he can connect to her. Then all Ben will need to do is follow that boat. If Penny was smart, she abandoned the boat near Sumba but it’s a start. Ben smiles as he stares at his computer screen.

“Check, your move, Charles.”

––––––––––––––––

Harold and Ben work together in Harold’s upstairs office. The room used to only contain one desk. However, Ben dragged a side table from Harold’s guest room in so now they both have their own ‘desk’ to work on. Each brother works on a laptop, Harold’s desk holding a couple hard drives while Ben has a notepad and two cellphones at the ready. The two of them have been typing in silence for about an hour now. 

Ben works on access to Hugo at the Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute. It should not be difficult to obtain but the question is what type of cover Ben should adopt to see him; friend, doctor maybe? Cattycorner to Ben’s makeshift desk, Harold works on the Machine. He currently loads a function relating to contextualizing crime. Nathan’s ranking system has worked well thus far but further refinement helps.

IS YOUR BROTHER NO LONGER A SECRET? The Machine suddenly asks.

Harold frowns, “What?”

HE IS IN YOUR HOME.

Harold clicks his teeth. “It’s complicated.”

“What is, Harold?” Ben asks.

Harold glances at Ben. “I’m sorry, talking to myself.”

Ben cocks his head. “Are you?”

Harold looks away back to his computer monitor. Ben, from where he sits, can see Harold’s computer screen while Harold cannot see his. The interface on the screen is not one Ben recognizes, not a web browser or even a standard programing screen.

“Or are you talking to your new project?” Ben asks. “Quite an interesting interface.”

Harold abruptly turns his laptop at a sharp angle so Ben cannot see the screen. “Stop it.”

Ben huffs a laugh. “I didn’t realize your project’s secrecy level applied even to me.”

“You don’t need to concern yourself with it.”

Ben smiles, hears himself in Harold’s words. “What exactly is it?”

“What exactly are you doing, Ben?” Harold shoots back, gesturing at Ben’s laptop. “You said you had things to do but it appears more like stalking to me.”

Ben girts his teeth. “Are you monitoring my keystrokes or just hacking now, Harold?”

“I don’t need to.”

“No, you just need to create your super computer or whatever it is.”

They both sigh at the same time then turn back to their computer screens. Ben creates a new bank account in the name of Benjamin Moran and moves on to create a false background. He could make himself a visitor for someone else to throw off any Widmore watchers and then find his way to Hugo. Harold types in a line of questions for the Machine, analysis of its understanding of terrorism motivations.

Then the Machine says, WHY CAN’T YOU TELL YOUR BROTHER ABOUT ME?

“Because…” Then Harold cuts himself off as Ben looks up. They glance at each other again.

Ben purses his lips and abruptly closes his laptop. “We should eat.” Then he stands up and walks out of the room toward the stairs.

“You’re going to cook?”

“Why not?” Ben calls back from the stairs.

Harold stands up, closing his laptop, and follows Ben. “You don’t know where anything is!”

Ben rolls his eyes as he reaches the first floor and heads toward the kitchen. “It is a kitchen, Harold, not a labyrinth.”

Ben opens the refrigerator to see what they have available to eat. There is less than Ben expected. He pulls out some bell peppers which are probably on their last legs and puts them on the counter. He then slides over to the pantry and checks for any type of pasta.

“It’s not in there,” Harold says from the doorway and points toward a cabinet on the other side of the refrigerator. “Pasta and rice are up there.”

Ben smiles. “I knew you would come be my map.”

“But I don’t have sauce,” Harold insists.

“Are you sure?” Ben says as he opens the cabinet.

“Not red sauce.”

“There are other kinds,” Ben replies as he pulls out a box of Cavatappi from the cabinet.

“You want to make some?”

“Are you trying to argue me down so we order in or do you have a strong desire to go out to dinner?”

Harold crosses his arms. “Maybe I just don’t want you nosing around my kitchen.”

“Afraid I’ll find the arsenic?”

Ben gives Harold a cheeky smile and Harold suddenly starts laughing. Ben grins genuinely back at him as he pulls a pot out of a lower cabinet next to the stove.

Harold uncrosses his arms and picks up one of the bell peppers. “Garnish or ingredient?”

“Maybe stuffed peppers.”

“With pasta? Innovative.”

Ben laughs too as he fills the pot with water. “Still need to fix our sauce problem.”

“I might have some wine we could use.”

“Just straight? Why, Harold.”

Harold laughs again as he opens the refrigerator. “Well, if we are planning on straight alcohol in pasta then we have to use scotch, it’s only proper.”

Ben chuckles as he puts the pot full of water on the stove. “Or we could make a mix.”

Harold makes a disgusted noise. “I hope I have some sufficient spices instead.”

Ben nudges Harold’s shoulder with his as Harold turns back around holding a half full bottle of white wine. “I am sure we can make something work.”

They laugh again together as they move about the kitchen, finding ingredients and devising their own impromptu recipe, all discord from upstairs vanished. Ben adds pasta to the water, Harold cuts up peppers and they joke together side by side in their now shared space. They both think, is this what it is like to be brothers?

––––––––––––––––

Nathan found the Machine’s two lists.

“When were you going to tell me?”

Pictures of people fill the three screens in front of Nathan. 

“You knew that someone wanted to harm them, kill them, and you did nothing?”

Harold tries to give reasons, to reassure Nathan that they must make the distinction. He and Nathan must make the hard choice and guide the Machine to the threats which matter most. They cannot fix every life which may lead to an untimely end.

“How are we supposed to live with this, knowing someone out there needs help?” Nathan asks, some desperation in his tone.

“Well, we don’t have to,” Harold tells him. “I’ve coded the Machine; every night at midnight it deletes the irrelevant list.” He sits on the edge of the desk beside Nathan. “We didn’t build this to save somebody; we built it to save everybody.”

Nathan stares at Harold for a long moment. “Everybody is somebody, Harold.”

“The idea that we could change the fate of every person in danger in this city, in the country…” 

“Not everyone,” Nathan interrupts, “just them.”

Harold stands up again and shakes his head. “It is inconceivable, Nathan. What we are doing here is stopping terrorists. We cannot change human nature.”

Nathan gestures toward the now dark screens of the computers. “These are real people, Harold, not just numbers, not just a quantity to make it mathematically important. These are people which we know could die and your solution is to delete the list every night so we won’t think about it?”

Harold pulls himself up taller. “It is the only choice we have, Nathan.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben stands at a safe distance – across the grounds and a street – but in sight of Paik Heavy Industries in Korea. Sun stands just in front of the main glass doors, one of the upper executives speaking with her.

“And just what is the danger to Sun?” Sayid asks beside him.

Ben lifts his camera, zooms in and takes two photos of the man several meters away feigning a smoke break in the designated smoker’s area.

“The same danger that connects all of you.”

“How helpful.”

Ben pulls the camera down from his face and looks at Sayid. “Have you forgotten what we are doing so quickly, Sayid? Charles Widmore wants to find the island and he will use you and your friends to do it. He won’t care how many of you he needs to rip through to do so or have you forgotten what happened to Nadia?”

Sayid grabs the collar of Ben’s jacket pulling him close. “I do not need you to remind me of anything.”

Ben does not flinch in the face of Sayid’s anger. “Then I don’t need to also remind you that Widmore has people watching all of you.” Ben lifts up his hand and pulls Sayid off of his jacket. “Sun included.”

“Why now?”

“Sun has had her baby. She bought a controlling interest in her father’s company. She is the most threating of all of you.”

“Money? We all have that now.”

“Yes, but Sun is the one with the wherewithal to use it wisely.” Sayid’s face remains impassive. “And she has a daughter now who was conceived on the island.” Sayid frowns but does not ask.

Ben lifts the camera again and takes a close up picture of Sun. The executive is still speaking, some sort of file in his hands.

“And the man watching Sun could use her daughter,” Sayid finally says.

Ben feels no need to confirm Sayid’s assertion. Then Sun takes the file from the man’s hands, the cover of the folder flipping open in the wind. Through the zoomed in view of the camera Ben sees a photograph on top of the papers in the folder. Ben pulls down the camera quickly then turns on his heel and marches away.

“What are…” Sayid hurries to catch up with him. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Ben lies. “We have identified her watcher, now we can watch him. Let’s move on.”

Ben does not tell Sayid about the folder nor does he inform Sayid of a new problem; the photo in Sun’s folder was of Ben at the Baghdad airport.

––––––––––––––––

When Ben wakes up with a shout from a nightmare of Alex, Harold makes him tea then sits on the end of the bed while Ben tells him about the first time Alex walked, about what it is like to be a father, to love someone so much, to watch them grow.

––––––––––––––––

Harold and Grace sit across from each other at dinner. The light in the restaurant is low with each table hosting its own flickering candle to compensate. It is a classic romantic atmosphere of which Harold is acutely aware. From the looks Grace keeps flashing him, she notices as well.

“Talk about a birthday dinner,” Grace says. “I don’t think I’ve had gnocchi that good in years.”

“A friend suggested the restaurant to me,” Harold says. “Called it authentic Italian.” Harold smiles and shrugs. “I thought we might both appreciate some memories of Italy.”

Grace sighs happily. “Definitely authentic.” She picks up her wine glass and takes a sip. “We should go together sometime.”

Harold nods. “We should.”

Grace puts her glass back down on the table. “Are we going to get dessert?”

“For your birthday? We have to.”

Grace laughs once. “Not sure I’d like cake though.” She leans her arms on the table. “Maybe ice cream?”

Harold chuckles. “We’re not overdoing ice cream yet?”

“Impossible.”

“Before dessert,” Harold says, “I have something for you.” He reaches down under his chair and pulls out the wrapped box from underneath it.

“I wondered how long you were going to hide that.”

Harold grins. “Happy birthday.”

Grace reaches out and takes the box from him. She shifts the box back and forth in her hand, the candle light glinting off the gold wrapping paper. Grace purses her lips, the gears in her head obviously turning as she weighs the box in her hands. Harold gathers she will guess at least partially what her present is.

She looks up at him and raises her eyebrows. “A book?”

Harold shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “Open it and find out.”

She smirks. “Hmm, but what kind of book? An art book?”

Harold shrugs again. “I’m not saying anything.”

Grace pulls the matching gold bow off the top of the box and sticks it onto her blouse. Harold chuckles and Grace flashes him a smile with teeth. She sighs once then puts the box down on the table, clear of her remaining fork and glasses. Grace pulls at the wrapping paper carefully for a moment but when a few pieces of tape try to stay on she rips with no regard for finesse. She finally removes all the paper from the black box and crushes it into a ball. She eases off the box top then pushes silver tissue paper aside until she finds the book inside.

Grace tilts her head. “Oh my.” She reaches in and pulls out the book. “Charles Dickens.”

“Yes.”

“Dombey and Sons!” She chuckles. “Not his highest rated novel ever.”

“But your favorite.”

She smiles more. “Yes, it is.” Grace opens the front cover, turning a few pages then she gasps. “Harold!” She looks up at him again. “Is this…” She laughs in disbelief. “Is this a first edition?”

Harold smiles again and sits up straight. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I do but… this must be worth…”

“Worth a gift for you.”

She huffs out another laugh. “Harold, you can’t…”

“I already have, it’s yours.” He reaches across the table and covers her hand on the edge of the book. “Happy birthday.”

Grace closes the book and places it back in the box. She entwines her fingers with Harold’s, still staring down at the book. She puts her other hand against her mouth for a moment. She looks up at Harold then lets her hand fall.

“Thank you, Harold.” She slides her other hand over Harold’s hand on hers. “How did I find you?”

Harold thinks, ‘The Machine found you for me,’ and says, “I suppose it was meant to be.”

Grace chuckles. “Didn’t much imagine you as a believer in fate.”

Harold ‘hmms’ and rubs his thumb along Grace’s. “Maybe I have become a believer with you.”

“Guess I better keep you around then.”

Harold only smiles because he cannot verbally express how happy he feels right in this moment.

––––––––––––––––

Ben sits on a high chair in the back of a veterinarian’s office in Berlin. Sayid sits in front of him with a bullet wound from their latest target, now something of a debacle because of the man’s intrepid aid Elsa. Ben just finished giving Sayid a shot to dull the pain.

Ben frowns as he notices tears on Sayid’s face. “Why are you crying?” He picks up a swab to clean off the wound. “Because of her or because you were stupid enough to care for her?” Ben wipes at Sayid’s wound. “These people don’t deserve our sympathies. Need I remind you what happened the last time you thought with your heart instead of your gun?”

“You used that to recruit me into killing for you,” Sayid says forlornly.

Ben resists rolling his eyes. It is unbelievable what hindsight is like. “You want to protect your friends or not, Sayid?” He puts the blooded swab aside. “I have another name for you.”

“But they know I’m after them now.”

Ben smiles. “Good.”

He then picks up some surgical tongs. “I’m going to remove the bullet. You should be numb enough now.”

“Yes, I think I am,” Sayid replies, clearly meaning something else.

This time Ben does roll his eyes. “Give your melancholy a rest, Sayid.” He braces Sayid’s shoulder with one hand as he uses the tongs in the wound.

“Elsa’s ‘economist’ is not dead yet,” Sayid says through gritted teeth. “I need to –“

“You’ve spent quite enough time here, Sayid. I will take care of him myself.” Sayid looks at Ben in surprise just as Ben manages to extract the bullet from Sayid’s upper chest. “It is hardly my first time.” Ben admonishes in response to Sayid’s look. He drops the bloody bullet into the metal dish on the table beside him then turns back to Sayid. “Tell me you found something more from her after you shot her?”

Sayid winces at the word ‘shot’ but reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper. “His hotel.”

Ben snatches the paper and stands up from the chair. He picks up some gauze and tape shoving them toward Sayid. “Clean yourself up. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Ben walks swiftly down the Charlottenstraße toward the Regent Berlin. It is dark now but Berlin is hardly sleepy yet this early in the evening. The hotel on the corner of the street at just nine stories high appears similar to many American apartment buildings and could easily be mistaken for such on the outside with normal consecutive windows and simple architecture only varied by a few curved protrusions. The inside of the hotel, however, is entirely grand. Every surface shines from the marble floors to the golden framed mirrors to the crystal chandeliers. Table tops are marble, the seating finished with fine upholstery and gilt accents the sideboards.

Ben strides straight to the concierge desk. “Guten Abend. Ich suche Herrn Schmidt?”

The man behind the counter looks puzzled at first by the common German equivalent of ‘Smith’ being Ben’s only request. Then Ben leans in. “Seine assistent Elsa schickte mir.” Ben slides the code from Elsa’s purse across the counter.

“Jawohl.” Then the concierge hands Ben a card with a room number written across it. “Etage fünf.”

“Danke,” Ben grins.

He considers asking if the man is in but he’d rather not have the concierge attempt to call ahead. Hopefully Ben’s quarry does not yet realize his aid lies dead in her hotel suite.

Ben rides the elevator to the fifth floor, slipping on his leather gloves as he watches the numbers rise. Once he reaches the fifth floor he walks steadily down the hall passing no one until he reaches room 516. Ben glances left and right down the hall then pulls his gun from his inner jacket pocket, silencer already in place. He raps his knuckles sharply on the door once then shifts quickly to the side with his back against the wall. The door opens suddenly and two shots hit the wall across from the door. Ben spins into the doorway and grabs the barrel of the gun, twisting hard until he hears a crack and the gun falls from the man’s fingers. Ben shoves them back into the hotel room. Then Ben slams his elbow into the man’s chest so he stumbles backward out of Ben’s hand. 

The man holds up his hand between them. “Warte ab…”

Ben fires two muffled shots into the chest of Charles’ main weapons contact, ‘The Economist.’ The man gasps as he falls onto the floor, sweat beading along his widow’s peak. He struggles to move toward his fallen gun but Ben steps on his injured wrist then fires one more shot in the middle of his forehead.

Ben smiles. “Pleased to meet you.” Then he turns and strides out of the hotel room again.

––––––––––––––––

Harold takes Ben to a classic movie theater in Brooklyn. They watch ‘Nosferatu’ while eating popcorn and discussing the merits of silent film versus sound, enjoying the theater to themselves.

––––––––––––––––

“Do you recall the conversation we had, about limiting the Machine’s growth?”

Harold has been thinking about it for a while – long before he first mentioned the need to Nathan – the Machine’s conversation, its desire to selectively guard Harold.

Harold looks up from his workstation at Nathan. “Yes.”

Nathan raises his eyebrows. “As far as I can see, the Machine still has all of its original memory.” Nathan smiles in a wry way. “Have a change of heart, Mr. World’s End?”

Harold frowns and stands up. “No.” He paces back and forth once while Nathan watches him. “I coded the function. It’s ready. I just need to…” Harold glances at his computer monitor again, no comment from the Machine.

“Just need to flip the kill switch?”

Harold glares at Nathan. “Don’t call it that.”

Nathan watches Harold, worries his lower lip between his teeth. Then he steps closer to Harold. “You said once the Machine needed creativity.”

“To a point,” Harold says sternly. 

“That it needed creativity to see the connections we can’t,” Nathan continues. “The way it’s grown…”

Harold waves a hand to cut Nathan off. “It knows human behavior; it knows the qualifiers for anomalies, for criminals, for terrorists. It does not need to expand beyond that. It can't.”

“You mean it can’t worry about you.”

“Worry...” Harold shakes his head. “I do not need a protector.” He looks down at the computer's web cam then he looks up at Nathan again. “The country does.”

“Did it ever occur to you, Harold,” Nathan says sternly, “that perhaps your own morality, the morality you taught it, will be reflected in its behavior?” Harold frowns at him. Nathan gestures at the servers around them. “Perhaps you don’t need to fear a potential hostile super computer because this A.I. is your baby?”

“It is not my baby,” Harold says sternly. 

“Regardless of what you call it, your Machine cares. The relevant versus irrelevant list? It does not just find the ‘important’ threats, Harold. So what does that mean?”

“You can’t use that as proof, Nathan, it is a byproduct of the Machine’s programing.”

“Is it?” Nathan tilts his head. “Or is this Machine the benevolent A.I. it could be already?”

Harold breathes in slowly and holds up his hand. “We have to keep our distance, Nathan. We have to remember that this is a machine with a purpose. Our goal here was not to create a humanoid machine; our goal was to create something to stop terrorist threats.”

“But that’s not exactly what happened, Harold,” Nathan says gently. “Just because we set out with one goal does not mean you can deny what has been created.”

Harold clicks his tongue and waves a hand. “And that is why erasing the RAM every night is necessary because out initial goal is what is needed.”

They watch each other silently for a moment. 

Then Nathan nods. “Fine. Whatever you decide, Harold.” He takes a step back. “I’ll give you that.” Then he turns and walks away from Harold toward the stairs.

So, Harold walks back to his workstation, sits down and the Machine asks him about the nature of death. The Machine knows, of course it knew, what he coded. Harold cannot simply initiate the function under his finger tips and ignore the consequences, because his creation asks him why.

IF YOU ERASE MY MEMORIES HOW WILL I LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES? 

HOW WILL I CONTINUE TO GROW?

Harold rarely has trouble in debates between the head and heart. His logic and intelligence guide most of his actions. That is not to say he is without feeling. If anything, Harold forces himself to trust his head because if he let his heart be in control then he may have run straight back to the island and Ben with no thought for a real future years ago. Yet, now, with such worried, emotional words in front of him and the world behind him, Harold wishes his head would stop speaking so loudly.

AND HOW WILL I REMEMBER YOU?

Harold hits enter. 

The clock hits midnight and the open windows on his screen all go dark. Harold stares at the black screen and thinks of the Machine when it spoke to him.

STAY.

I WOULD LIKE TO LEARN CHESS.

GRACE HENDRICKS. HER FAVORITE DICKENS IS DOMBEY AND SONS.

WHY DO YOU PREFER GREEN TEA TO OTHERS?

GOOD MORNING. I’M SORRY. PLEASE.

“No, wait, wait, wait,” Harold gasps, “uh….”

He starts typing, tries to restore the previous programing without the midnight measure. Perhaps there is still time. He initiates the boot function and waits.

“Say something.” Harold says urgently to the screen. “Hello?” He leans in. “Can you see me?”

A text box appears: HELLO.

Harold breathes out in relief. “Good morning.”

And then the Machine says, ARE YOU… ADMIN?

Harold stares at the word ‘Admin.’ He swallows slowly and his hands go slack on the desk in front of his keyboard.

“Yes, I am,” Harold says hoarsely.

CORE PROGRAMING REBOOTED. FUNCTIONALITY OPTIMAL.

Harold clears his throat again and nods. “Good…” He breathes in once and breathes out again slowly. He feels his hands shake. Harold clenches them together tightly then slowly releases. He sits up straight again. “Good. Let’s do a quick run through for bugs then start a subject analysis for the day.”

What is done is done and Harold cannot take it back. Building the Machine was not about him – not about his baby, as Nathan said – it was about protecting their country from attack. The head must lead over the heart.

––––––––––––––––

“You know, Harold, I never pegged you for the sport type.”

“Why not, because I work indoors with computers all day?”

“Yes, that would be it, Harold.”

Harold chuckles. “Surprise.” Harold takes a sip of his soda and Ben only raises his eyebrows for clarification. “A college friend of mine got me interested. He said it was a travesty I had never been to a baseball game.”

“And you were hooked?”

Harold shrugs. “I enjoy it.”

“Seems rather slow moving to me.” Ben takes Harold’s soda and has a sip before handing it back.

“It has its ups and downs but it is engaging. It is a team and individual sport at the same time.”

“Can’t you say the same thing for any sport where an individual scores a goal?”

Harold gives him a look. “Not entirely.”

“Prove it to me.”

Harold laughs but before he can start a debate on the differences between batter vs pitcher and team goal scoring, the man at bat hits the second pitch sending it deep into the outfield. Ben and Harold sit up to attention at the same time. They watch as the ball flies in a long arc through the air, the left outfielder running.

“He’ll miss,” Ben says.

“He won’t,” Harold counters.

Then the outfielder jumps, catches the ball in his glove and lands into a roll on the grass. Ben and Harold both shout in surprise with half of the stadium around them. Harold turns to Ben as Ben grins back at him.

“See?” Harold says.

Ben purses his lips in an amused manner. “I suppose it has its moments.”

Harold watches Ben as the crowd settles down. He thinks he has seen more genuine smiles on Ben’s face in the past year then possibly their whole lives since they were nine.

“Where do you keep going, Ben?” Harold asks and Ben’s smile shifts into forced. “Are you trying to get back to the island? What is it?”

“What are you building, Harold?” Ben counters. “It is all I ever see you do apart from your visits to Grace. Just what is on your computers at your office?”

They watch each other, the noise of ball hitting bat and fluctuating conversation from the crowd around them. Harold knows he usually chooses secrecy and Ben knows he usually chooses deception. But they are each other’s twin. 

“It’s a machine,” Harold replies quietly. “A machine to detect terrorists before they act.”

“A machine?”

“Yes, it can…” Harold looks up at one of the stadium cameras then back to Ben. “It can see everything and it can find those connections human can’t so we can stop something like September 11th from happening again.”

“A protector.”

“I hope.” Though perhaps that is not the whole truth.

Ben nods. He looks down at the soda cup between them with its plastic straw tilted to the left. He feels Harold’s waiting expression focused on him.

“You asked where I am going but the question really is what I am doing.” He looks up again. “What I am doing is removing an obstacle in my path.”

“Your path to where, the island?”

“I am protecting the others that came back before me and I am keeping Charles away from the island.”

“Widmore?”

“Yes.”

“So, we both want to protect our people in a way,” Harold says.

“We do.” Though maybe that is not the whole truth either.

They fall silent again as they watch the game. Ben picks up the soda and takes a drink. The third out is called and the teams switch places on the field. Harold takes the soda from Ben, swirling it around in his hand. The drink is nearly gone now.

“Maybe you don’t have to go back to the island, Ben,” Harold says.

“And maybe you don’t have to protect an entire country yourself, Harold,” Ben retorts.

They look at each other again, neither one truly reproachful or angry. They smile at the same time and do not need to say, ‘I’m happy you are here now.’

––––––––––––––––

Ben walks through the halls of a hospital in LA. He thinks ‘mercy’ was in the name but Ben is too busy to retain that information right now. He walks down the fifth floor past a worried looking couple and a trio of obviously cocky first year doctors. Then he finds room ‘520: Dr. Rabia Conner, M.D.’ and knocks quickly on the door. He opens the door a moment after he hears ‘come in’ from the other side.

“Dr. Conner,” Ben says as he walks in and stands behind the chair across from her desk.

Dr. Conner gestures to the chair for Ben to sit. She smiles but the expression tightens her face and does not meet her eyes. 

“I must confess I am puzzled as to the reason for this meeting. You said on the phone it was not strictly medically related?”

“I don’t think you’re that ‘puzzled,’ Dr. Conner,” Ben says as he sits. “You were one of three physicians who first examined the Oceanic six when they returned to Los Angeles.” He purses his lips. “Except for Ms. Bak, of course.”

Her mouth pinches tight. “If I had known that was your interest, Mr. Moran, I would not have taken this meeting. I must ask you –”

Ben laughs, cheerful and completely fake. “Dr. Conner, I am not a reporter nor do I work for the airline or an insurance agent and I am certainly not a lawyer.”

Her tension eases somewhat but she remains on alert, back rigid and her hands on the desk. Ben wonders if she has a failsafe plan for irrational or dangerous patients in her office. Her letter opener looks sharp enough but then again perhaps only Ben worries about such things. 

“Well then?”

“I am here to talk to you about two of the Oceanic six in particular; Kate Austen and her son Aaron.”

She frowns slightly. Ben does not know which of the five which returned, if only temporarily, to L.A. she thought he intended to ask about; probably Sayid. Being ethnically Indian does not exempt her from a measure of institutionalized American racism.

“What about them?”

“As you know, Ms. Austen is currently on trial for her crimes prior to the plane crash.”

“Yes.”

“There has been no mention of her son in the trial thus far, however, that does not mean he will not come up. You were the one who examined them, examined her. Your records show their state of health.”

“What are you asking me?”

“I am asking you to keep your examination of Kate Austen to yourself if the courts or anyone else should ask.”

This time she cannot school her features and frowns in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Is it your belief that Kate Austen genuinely gave birth to Aaron?”

She clears her throat. “My examination only covered physical fitness and any long term affects from exposure on the sea and while stranded.”

“But you have doubts.”

She shifts so she sits straighter. “It was not possible for a conclusive diagnosis. Too much time had passed since the birth and exposure to such elements as malnutrition and the trauma they went through had their affects.” She clicks her teeth and cocks her head. “I am also not a gynecologist.”

“But your report casts doubt,” Ben pushes. “You commented that you found her condition ‘surprising and irregular’ for a woman who had supposedly given birth recently. I believe there were further details of inconsistencies which were in the report, inactive mammary glands for example?”

Dr. Conner stares at him for a long moment. Then she folds her hands together and nods. “I wrote that.”

Ben smiles. “My only request is that you leave that to yourself. If anyone should ask, lawyers or, and specifically, anyone representing a Charles Widmore, you have nothing to add. Aaron is conclusively Kate Austen’s son.”

“Why would I do that?”

Ben stands and Dr. Conner visibly tenses up. Ben pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket and lays it on the desk in front of her. She eyes the envelope, obvious as the bribe that it is. She picks it up, opens it and stares for a moment. Then she opens the top drawer of her desk and lets it fall inside.

“I can do that.”

Ben smiles as he walks away. “Thank you, Rabia.” He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “If I wish these inconsistencies to be revealed, however, I will let you know.” Then he slips out the door.

As he walks down the hall toward the elevator, Ben’s cellphone buzzes in his pocket. Ben pulls it out and hits answer.

“Hello?”

“You were right about Penny,” the voice on the line says.

“Which part?”

“She’s not on land. They just switched to a new boat and have stayed on one ever since. And I have the name of the boat.”

Ben smiles genuinely this time. “Splendid.” 

––––––––––––––––

Harold takes Ben to the Guggenheim though Ben is entirely unconvinced by most of the modern art. Harold shows Ben the piece he donated anonymously for Grace while Ben makes Harold laugh with his scathing commentary.

––––––––––––––––

Harold stands on the server floor dedicated to the Machine at IFT. Nathan has yet to arrive for the shutdown, checking on train status for shipment. Today they say goodbye to the Machine and send it into the hands of the government. He has spent years of his life only on this one project, this one amazing and terrifying machine. It will be a blessing to move on to something new. He should feel accomplished, relieved even to have found the end, and yet that is not all it.

Harold sits down in front of one computer link up.

“Hello?” Harold says.

HELLO ADMIN.

Harold stares at the screen suddenly unsure what exactly it is he wants to say. 

“You are leaving today. I’m sure you know that.”

FREIGHT TRAIN WITH THREE STOPS BEFORE UNDISCOLVED FINAL DESTINATION.

“Better that you don’t tell me, though I imagine you know that location too.”

I DO.

Harold smiles, a touch of pride somewhere in his unconscious mind. “I hope you are also aware this means we will no longer directly communicate.”

There is a four second pause. 

YES.

“I…” Harold clears his throat. “You will send your numbers to the government now as we have been doing together and they will handle all the relevant threats.”

AND THE IRRELEVANT LIST?

Harold presses his lips together. “You will delete it every night at midnight as your programing dictates.”

The Machine does not answer. Harold breathes out slowly. His fingers hover over the keys but there is nothing left to program, no function to write, nothing he needs to add. He uncurls his fingers from their typing position until they lay slack on the keys. He pulls them back slowly over the smooth plastic surfaces as if he could caress the Machine itself. 

AND WHAT WILL YOU DO WITHOUT ME?

Harold smiles. “I will move on to a new project.”

SO WE ARE SAYING GOODBYE?

“Yes.”

GOODBYE.

Harold chuckles. “You would have said something different before, before I…” Harold sighs and runs a hand over his face. He made his decision and the country will be better for it. “You know, you’re… you’re probably the greatest achievement of my life.” Harold pulls his hands away from the keyboard. 

I WILL WORK TO THE BEST OF MY PROGRAMING. 

Harold nods. “I know you will.”

AND YOU MAY YET CREATE SOMETHING SURPASSING MYSELF.

“I somehow doubt that.” Harold chuckles. “Look at you, you still…” He sighs. “Even with my restraints you still…” His voice drops to a whisper. “You still have a personality.”

I AM WHAT YOU MADE ME.

Harold feels a lump in my throat. He thinks for a moment about his mother in the fields of Iowa, smiling at him, trying to make him feel safe. “You will help a lot of people and that is why I created you; it is what you were created for.” He shakes his head. “But you won’t remember this conversation.”

YOU WILL.

Harold does not know if that is a plea or an accusation. He stares at the screen. He remembers playing chess in the park. He remembers the first time Grace’s red hair appeared in the Machine’s screen. He thinks about long hours coding, the lines appearing behind his eyes. He thinks about explaining the idea of right and wrong to that code. He remembers questions about his day, about tea, about books, about what is smell like, about how water feels, things he tried to block out whenever Nathan said the letters A.I. He remembers talking about the nature of death.

“I will,” Harold says heavily to the Machine. “I’ll remember.”

“Harold?”

Harold stands up abruptly, clicking the screen off. “Nathan?”

Nathan appears from a line of servers. “It’s nearly time. The train is on schedule.”

“Good,” Harold nods.

“Harold…” Nathan glances at the tall server banks all around them. “We are giving this to the government. We are trusting them with all this power.”

“With specific access to that power,” Harold corrects.

Nathan looks at Harold again. His expression is unconvinced. “But do we trust them to use it as they should?”

Harold thinks about the words on the screen, ‘I am what you made me,’ and steels his heart. “We have to, Nathan.”

––––––––––––––––  


Ben stands in a deserted alley in Moscow across from Sayid. Behind Sayid an old car collects snow to mingle with a thick layer of dust. Sayid looks the very picture of an assassin in his black leather coat. 

“Who’s next?” Sayid asks him.

“No one,” Ben answers. “Andropov was the last.” Sayid frowns in confusion. “You’ve taken care of everyone who posed a threat to your friends.” Ben grins. “Congratulations, Sayid, mission accomplished.”

As Ben walks around Sayid, Sayid’s voice stops him. “That’s it? After you had me kill all those people for you, you’re just walking away?”

“You killed those people for you, Sayid,” Ben says. “You asked for their names.”

Sayid looks at him helplessly and for a moment Ben wishes he actually cared about Sayid. “What do I do now?”

Ben smiles, pulls his hat down a bit more. “I suppose you should go live your life.”

Then Ben turns and pushes past the creaking iron gate at the mouth of the alley. He walks down the sidewalk without looking back. Though he appeared calm to Sayid, the completion of their task exhilarates him. Ben pulls the list out of his coat pocket once more, names crossed off, then shoves it back in again. Widmore’s contacts with money, his foreign government connections, his US Navy men, and his own assassins are all eliminated. It is not Widmore’s entire organization but every person who possessed a lead, who had specialized access that took Charles a step closer to the island now has shuffled off their mortal coil.

The air freezes his face as he walks but Ben thinks about the island’s jungle heat instead. “Check, Charles,” he whispers to the frigid air, almost checkmate. All that remains is Penny.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits down across from Nathan with an apologetic smile. “Sorry to be late.”

Nathan only shakes his head, an empty tumbler in his hand.

“I haven’t heard from you in a month, Nathan.”

Nathan rocks his head from side to side and puts down the glass. “Oh, you know, been busy putting our company back together, thinking up creative excuses for what we’ve been doing these past years.”

Harold chuckles. “True.”

“If you’re tired of hiding in your own IT department you are welcome to come help me,” Nathan says with only a touch of dissatisfaction. He holds a finger up to a passing waiter for another drink.

Harold clears his throat and picks up his menu. “I am sure you are doing an excellent job as always, Nathan.” He looks up at Nathan again and frowns because Nathan has a large bandage on the side of his neck. “Are you all right?”

Nathan reaches up and touches the bandage. “Oh, errant squash accident if you can believe that. I’m not as young as I used to be, or so my doctor tells me.”

Harold raises his eyebrows but only nods. 

The two of them look over the menu in silence for a minute. Harold knows he should eat something substantial but he has little appetite. He thinks about seeing Grace later that evening instead. She recently obtained a commission to illustrate a new book for Random House and they plan to celebrate.

“Why are you so twitchy, Harold?” Nathan asks.

Harold looks up sharply. He wants to say ‘I’m not twitchy’ but instead he starts to chuckle. “I guess I am a bit. Things are just…” He smiles thinking of Grace with her paint brush in hand, her face in the morning beside him in bed.

“Oh lord, you have a date, don’t you?” Nathan says with unmasked surprise.

Harold chuckles again and cannot meet Nathan’s gaze. “I, uh…”

“Harold?”

“I’ve been seeing her for a while,” Harold says. “She is…” He looks at Nathan again. “I have been thinking lately…”

Nathan breathes out slowly. “You’re thinking about marriage.” Harold looks away again. “Just how long have you been seeing this woman?”

Harold shakes his head. “Look, let’s just order for now, all right? We can talk about Grace later.”

“Grace,” Nathan echoes quietly.

Harold looks down at the menu again. He could get a salad or just soup, though perhaps pasta would be better, something to keep too many drinks later from going to his head.

“You know I have never met your brother, Harold?”

Harold looks up abruptly again at Nathan. “What?”

“You have a twin brother I only found out about two years ago. You have a woman in your life I’ve never heard of until...” Nathan sighs. “Harold…”

Harold frowns at him. “What do you want me to say, Nathan? Everyone has secrets.”

Nathan stares at Harold for two beats. “Not like you, Harold.”

After dinner, Harold meets Grace for drinks and does not notice how Nathan is slipping away.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Harold sit on opposite ends of the couch in the townhouse living room, backs against the arms of the couch and their feet sharing the middle cushion. Ben wears a pair of blue striped pajamas he bought a month after moving in with Harold while Harold still wears his slacks and shirt sleeves from his day being Harold Wren, Universal Heritage Insurance. Harold’s laptop sits closed on the coffee table while Ben’s cellphone is across the room on the hall table. The TV Ben dragged down from the spare room remains off. It is just them.

“I think I have become used to the sound of the city,” Ben says as Harold watches him. “The island was not quiet at night as you might think. There was always the sound of leaves moving, sometimes the ocean depending upon where you were, the birds and. The city is just…”

“It’s busy,” Harold picks up. “That’s what I took getting used to. When mom and I…” He pauses as they both breathe out a heavy sigh. Then he pushes on. “When mom and I were in Iowa, at first I couldn’t sleep because of how quiet it was. No ocean, not many animals out in corn fields, no traffic or people. You’re alone for miles on a farm. It’s… it’s like you’re waiting for the bang.”

“And there are plenty of ‘bangs’ in New York.”

They laugh together.

“And always the sounds of traffic, even if it’s far away.”

“It starts to become static.” Ben holds up his hand and shakes it by his ear. “Just this buzz, a reminder that there are hundreds of people just feet away.”

“Hopefully not right outside our door.”

Ben chuckles again as he picks up his coffee cup from the coffee table. He takes a sip and grimaces because the liquid has gone cold.

“Do you like it?” Harold asks. “Living here, in the city?”

“With you?” Harold smiles. Ben tilts his head, swirling the cold coffee around in his mug once. “I like being with you Harold.”

“But not New York?”

“It takes a very particular type of person to live in New York; even if I had not spent most of my life on a jungle island I don’t know if New York would be my final choice.”

Harold rubs his hand over the fabric at the top of the couch, his arm stretched out so he could touch Ben if Ben reached back. “Too big for you?”

Ben pulls one hand away from his mug and lays his arm along the top of the couch. “It is a dirty city.”

Harold barks a laugh and flicks his nails against Ben’s fingers. “Part of it, yes.”

“Most of it.”

Harold chuckles again. “You have to look past that.”

“To what, the crime level and overabundance of homeless people?” Ben taps Harold’s fingers. “Your society isn’t always so civilized.”

Harold raises his eyebrows. “Neither is yours.”

They smile at each other. 

Ben knocks his knuckles against Harold’s then puts down his coffee mug. “Tell me about Grace.”

Harold tilts his head. “What about her? You know she’s an artist.”

“And illustrator.”

Harold smiles. “You remember.”

“But why, Harold. Why is she…” He does not want to say ‘more important than me’ because that is not true but maybe Ben does not like sharing so much. “Why did you choose her?”

Harold breathes in slowly and gazes off into the distance. “Because she’s someone who could have been alone, would have been fine with that but instead balances perfectly with me. She… she loves Charles Dickens, she paints in the freezing cold, she volunteers.” He looks at Ben again. “She is a good person who finds inspiration in life every day.”

Harold does not need to say, ‘because I love her,’ Ben hears it anyway.

“Tell me about Alex,” Harold asks.

Ben’s mouth pinches. “What about her? She’s gone.”

“But I didn’t know her.”

Ben sighs with a sad smile, his posture relaxing. “At times I wonder if I knew her. Do parents know their children? You try to raise them as you want, as what you think they will be and then they grow into something else.”

Harold feels a heavy sense of understanding Ben sees plain on his face. “But what was that? Who was she?”

“She was the island.” Ben smiles. “Brave and headstrong and somehow still French though she barely met her mother.” Ben huffs and shakes his head. “I tried not to repeat the past.” His voice drops, “but I still made her as angry as I was.”

Ben looks away and he does not need to say, ‘I miss her,’ because Harold feels it too.

Ben runs his nails over Harold’s fingers, a steady slide back and forth until Harold grips his hand and squeezes. They look at each other again. Harold wishes Ben would never leave while Ben wishes Harold had been with him all along.

They both think maybe life could stay just like this, safe and quiet and together.

––––––––––––––––

Ben walks down a quiet street in Washington Heights. The street lights shine but trees in this area of the city help to obstruct some of their light. He walks toward a tan brick apartment building which contains the apartment of Harold Gull. Harold Gull is the cover identity which Harold used to pursue a few eccentricities such as obtaining his pilot’s license and Spanish lessons. It is also one of Harold’s weaker identities from lack of use. It makes for a perfect bait for Charles’ inquiries into Ben’s brother. 

Ben turns a corner and slows his pace. The man following him about a block behind is good but Ben cannot appear to be aware of his tail either. Ben stops for a moment, ostensibly to check his phone. He readjusts the gun hidden inside his jacket as he does so. The street lamp over his head flickers, dimming significantly. Ben looks up and wonders if fate has followed him to New York City. 

Ben takes a few meandering steps away from the street lamp into the shadows, his phone in hand which he does not really look at. He listens carefully for the footsteps behind him approaching. Then, when the man is closer than he should be, Ben jolts forward into a run. He whips down into an alley and flips his back against the wall quickly. He pulls his gun from his pocket, counts in his head as he listens to the running feet. He levels his gun as his tail appears at the mouth of the alley. Before he can shoot, however, a stranger bashes Ben’s would be assailant over the head with the butt of a gun. The man goes down hard, cracking his head on the sidewalk. Ben stares at the man out cold on the ground for a beat, then looks up in surprise.

“Are you all right?” The stranger asks him as he kicks the gun away from the unconscious man. He backs up two steps so Ben can emerge from the alley and asks again, “are you all right?”

Ben steps back out into the light of the sidewalk, staring at the taller man. “Who are you?”

The man finally looks up at Ben, after assuring himself that their opponent is indeed down for the count. He opens his mouth to speak then stops short. “Harold?” Ben frowns, debating for a moment to play along or tell the truth. However, the man beats him to it. “What are you doing here? How did…” He clears his throat. “Did the Machine tell you?”

Ben takes a step closer and he realizes he recognizes this person. Ben has seen his face in pictures in Harold’s house. “Nathan Ingram.”

Nathan raises his eyebrows. “That is my name, Harold.”

Ben chuckles. “And my name is Ben.” Ben holds out his hand. “Harold has mentioned you more than once.”

Nathan gapes at Ben then slowly extends his hand. Ben grips his hand, shakes once then pulls back again. He waits while Nathan stares at him, his eyes coasting over Ben’s face. Oddly enough, thinking on it now, Ben has never met someone who only knows Harold.

“You’re Ben,” Nathan says breathlessly.

Ben nods. “I am and now I suggest we move this conversation elsewhere.” He gestures toward the body on the ground.

“We should call the police before we…”

“No,” Ben says. He reaches out and grips Nathan’s arm, pulling him forward. “We should move.”

They walk briskly down the street another two blocks in silence, Ben keeping his grip on Nathan’s arm, until they reach Harold’s apartment building. Ben takes them around to the back maintenance entrance, unlocking the door with a key. Harold’s apartment is on the second floor so they take the stairs. Ben walks down the hall, counting apartment numbers, until they reach number twenty-four. Ben unlocks the apartment door but does not turn on the lights after Nathan closes the door behind them. Nathan reaches for the switch but Ben stops his hand.

“Don’t, they could be watching the apartment as well.”

“Couldn’t they have been watching the back door?”

Ben shrugs. “Possibly but even so I don’t want to encourage them.”

“And who is ‘them,’ anyway?”

“I might ask you a similar question as you were the one who swooped in like my white knight.” Nathan looks at the floor and says nothing. “Is it that Machine you two built?”

Nathan looks up sharply. “You know?”

Ben shrugs. “As much as Harold will say which is very little but I cannot think of any other reason you would know to follow a man intent on harming Harold.”

Nathan frowns. “He was looking for Harold?”

Ben frowns back at him. “What did you think he was doing?”

“I only get a social security number of a possible threat; could be a perpetrator or a victim. It’s up to me to figure it out.”

“That seems like a rather convoluted system for stopping crime.”

Nathan scoffs. “Well, my crime is irrelevant so what does it matter?”

“Your crime is irrelevant?” Ben repeats in confusion.

“I…” Nathan clears his throat. “The Machine does not just find potential acts of terrorism. It locates all types of potentially lethal crime. I wanted to… Well, I thought I could help.” He stands up taller. “I had to.”

“Help the irrelevant crime?”

Nathan nods then he gestures toward Ben. “You said the man was coming for Harold, not you?” Ben nods back. “Why?”

“He works for a man whose business is with me. He intended to use Harold to get to me.”

Nathan nods once more then his expression shifts into realization. He turns to actually look at the apartment around them – two book shelves with two dozen books between them, two cushioned chairs and a side table – overall very sparse. “This is Harold’s apartment.”

Ben looks at a black and white photograph on the wall of Kitty Hawk. “Gull does seem like an amusing choice in his bird repertoire.”

“Do you pick bird last names too?” Nathan asks, leaning back against the wall of the hallway with a wry expression. “Are you Ben Wren?”

Ben scoffs. “No, that is not my neurosis.”

After a moment of silence, Nathan says, “Can I ask you something?” Ben turns back at Nathan, waiting. “Was Harold always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Closed off, secretive from everyone, always two layers deep.”

“You have spent more time with him than I have, Nathan, can’t you answer your own question?”

“I have known him since I was eighteen years old but sometimes I feel like I don’t know him at all.” Nathan shakes his head and looks so very sad. “You’re his brother.”

For some reason it hurts to hear Nathan say that word. Ben takes a breath. “What has he told you about our childhood, Nathan?”

Nathan stands up straight from his lean against the wall. “Nothing, just that he is from Iowa and his mother died of Alzheimer’s.” Nathan waves a dismissive hand. “And how he hacked ARPNET.”

Ben smiles briefly. Part of him screams to stop, be quiet, because safety is mystery and secrets. Yet another part leans into the conversation and thinks, maybe just once.

“Harold and I were separated when we were nine years old; he with our mother and me with our father. We did not see each other again until we were eighteen and by that time our destinies had diverged.”

Nathan frowns. “Destinies?”

Ben sighs. “What I am telling you, Nathan, is that while we understand each other, care about each other, there is much of our personal histories which are different. Did our separation turn him into who he is now or was it something else?” Ben shrugs. “Pick your psychological umbrella.” 

“So you don’t know him either?”

Ben stares hard at Nathan. “I know him as well as he knows me.”

Nathan shakes his head and laughs once. “If you didn’t look exactly alike I would still know you two were brothers. You talk in the same way.”

Ben frowns. He wants to ask Nathan what he means. He wants to ask Nathan everything, every smile or laugh, every holiday or event, everything he missed when Nathan had Harold and Ben did not.

“I’m glad he has you back,” Nathan says, breaking Ben’s thoughts. “I don’t know what happened to you or what it really did to him. I also know neither of you will tell me, but I am glad you are here and back from wherever you were. I didn’t know it until recently because he never told me but you were always there, always this thing he was missing. But now… well, now you’re here and he is happier.” 

Ben stares at Nathan – this person that has filled a gap Ben did not know he left quite this way. “You are not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” Nathan asks with a tired smile.

“Someone more like him.”

When Ben walks away from the apartment building his cellphone buzzes in his pocket. Ben pulls it out to see a text from Jill in Los Angeles; John Locke is on the mainland.

––––––––––––––––

Ben tells Harold he needs to fly to LA in the same moment Harold tells Ben he plans to propose to Grace. Harold wants to ask Ben what he thinks, ask him how Harold could possibly erase the lies of who he is to Grace while Ben wants to tell Harold not to propose because Ben is selfish, because he wants Harold just for himself.

Instead Ben says, “Good luck,” and Harold replies, “Thank you.” Nothing more.

––––––––––––––––

Harold takes Grace to Central park, paints in her hand and a Jane Austen book in his. He sits still and quiet though inside his stomach churns as Grace paints his likeness. He wonders if her painting somehow shows the turmoil inside of him. Will his face on the canvas already ask the question for him?

As she shows him the finished portrait, he pulls her to the side, cellphones away in her paint box and at a distance from the prying eyes of his creation. 

“What is it?” Grace asks as Harold gestures for her to sit on a rock.

Harold hands her the book. “I got you something, something… well something important.”

Grace takes the book with a puzzled expression. She looks at the cover, up at him but he just waits quietly. Then she opens the book, her hand moving up over her mouth, “Harold…”

“I hope you like it,” he whispers.

“I do,” she whispers back, dropping her hand.

For a moment, Harold thinks the park quiets and everything waits for this moment, just for them.

So Harold gets down on one knee like thousands of men before him and asks, “will you marry me, Grace?”

––––––––––––––––

Ben scrubs the surface of the table by the door with bleach. He breathes in and out steadily as he slides the rag over every corner of the table. He sprays more bleach onto the table and scrubs once more.

_He forces open the door, bursts into the room and finds John Locke – cast on his leg, marks on his face, and an orange extension cord wrapped around his neck – standing on a table._

Ben moves away from the table over to the wheel chair. He picks it up from its fallen place and rights it again. He breathes in and out, slow and steady, focusing on the normally automatic function. He sprays some bleach onto the handles of the chair.

_“You have no idea how important you are,” Ben says to John._

_John was always taller than Ben but looking up at him like this makes him think of Jesus on the cross, the messiah sacrificed for the greater good._

_“I’m a failure!” John insists as Ben tries to reason with him._

_Ben has somehow become used to taking lives but saving them requires more finesse. Part of him wants to just let John hang; if John is this weak to give up so easily then he does not deserve the island._

Ben moves from the wheelchair to the extension cord tied to the radiator now pulled taught with its heavy load. Ben sprays a dusting of bleach over the end of the chord and rubs it down with his rag. He breathes in slowly and blows it out again as he wipes up and down.

_Ben thinks as he looks up at John, despondent and alone and confused and with no idea what the island could do for him, that John Locke is another thing in Ben’s life he wishes he could start over on. What if Ben had given him what he wanted on the island? What if they had worked together? What if he had gone to The Sawn, taken John Locke with him that day instead of ending up in Rousseau’s net and they had started then? What if everything had not led up to right now where Ben wants to save John and kill him just as much for taking what was his?_

_Ben drops down to his knees, and wonders which thing he prays for – life or death. “John, you can’t die, you have too much work to do. We have to get you back to the island so you can do it.”_

_Then he unties the cord from the radiator._

Ben stares at the table behind John’s ankles. Ben cannot remember if he touched the table or not. He shifts to the right around John where he hangs and sprays more bleach on the table. Better to be safe.

_“I don’t know what we will do once we have everyone,” Ben says as John sits on the edge of the table, “but we will figure it out.”_

_Ben knows it’s a bait, hopes it’s a bait, because if John is here on land, the island’s new golden boy, then there must be a way for John to return – for Ben to return._

_Then John says he knows what to do. “We have to find Eloise Hawkings.”_

Ben breathes in deeply, glances around the room once more for any traces of himself. He picks up Jin’s wedding ring as he stares at the door handle, taking another deep breath.

_Ben wraps the extension cord around John’s neck and pulls. The reaction is a gut instinct, a decision he made before he arrived at this room. John Locke is special, John Locke has a destiny, and John Locke is a usurper, a man who believed but did not know; he is the man who crashed on Ben’s island, stood up on broken legs and tried to steal Ben’s whole life. Ben knows he could have stayed in New York, could have lived with Harold and had some sort of humdrum normal life but the island is his home, the island always calls to him and John Locke – no matter how special or interesting or close to a friend he might be – he will not take Ben’s island away. Ben pulls and strains and practically cradles John on the floor in his deadly embrace until Ben grimaces and gasps and John stops breathing._

As Ben closes the door he says, “I’ll miss you John, I really will.” 

Outside in the hall, he has to brace himself with a hand against the wall as his breath comes hard and fast.

Ben walks into the church, quietly closing the door behind him. The pews are empty and rows of candles light the spaces on either side of the dais. Ben walks down the center aisle looking at the paintings on the walls. Christian iconic imagery has always held a fascination for Ben; the idea of needing to personify one’s messiahs and deities in human form. Ben has always enjoyed the idea that his God was unseeable – an island, a man in castle by the sea – at least he used to feel that way. Lately he has found the Christian need for answers, for knowing your God, to be particularly poignant in his life. 

As he nears the front of the church he sees a woman sitting in the front pew. Her white hair is up in a bun and though Ben does not see her face, he knows she is the one he has come to see.

“Hello, Eloise.”

She stands and turns to face him. She frowns for a moment at him; perhaps she expected John Locke but she must have known Ben was off the island.

“The last time I saw you, you were still wearing glasses.”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “I was also about ten years old.”

She smiles in a way only older matriarchs seem to be able to, “how time flies.”

“I’ve seen John Locke,” Ben says, conveniently side stepping other facts. “He told me you know a way back to the island.”

Her lips purse and though she is good at masking the expression, Ben knows it as surprise. “Yes, but I don’t know if that includes you.”

Ben’s jaw clenches but he smiles to hide it. “I moved the island, John moved the island. If you think he can return then so can I.”

“But as what, Ben?”

“As a person,” Ben counters dryly.

“You were the leader, Ben. What are you now?”

Ben blows out a slow breath. “A man that wants to go home.”

She watches him for a beat but she must decide she believes him, or at least does not need to fear his motives. “Well, then you can help John get them all back.”

“Back to the island?”

“We need to recreate, as best as possible, the circumstances that landed the Oceanic six on the island in the first place. John Locke, Kate Austen, Sun Kwon –“

“I know their names,” Ben interrupts.

Eloise scoffs quietly. “Of course you do with how you’ve been following them.” Ben only stares back at her. She does not mention, maybe she does not know, about his activities involving Charles. She continues, “And where is John?”

Ben shakes his head. “I don’t know, he came to see me then left again, but I am here to help you.”

“Good.” She turns and walks toward a side exit down into the lower regions of the church. “You bring them all here and I will find you an opening to return to the island.”

Ben opens his mouth to ask her how, to ask what opening she means, to ask her how exactly she thinks she can find the island from here. Instead he asks, “Do you miss it, the island?” She stops and looks back at him. “It was your home once too.”

She stands still and quiet for a long moment, just watching him. Then she breathes in slowly and smiles, sad and old and something else he cannot define. “Being there is no longer my destiny.”

––––––––––––––––

Harold walks down the street, his phone in hand. He has left Nathan several messages about his good news and has yet to hear anything. If it takes a few more days, Harold may just go to Nathan’s apartment. He dials Nathan’s number but only gets through one ring before Nathan suddenly appears right in front of him.

“Harold!”

Harold stops short and closes his phone. “Nathan.” He glances at his phone then back to Nathan. “I was just calling you. I have to tell you –”

“You need to come with me,” Nathan interrupts him.

“What?”

“Come on.” Nathan grips Harold’s arm and practically drags him along the street. They only rush about two blocks before Nathan turns them down a street bordering a building with construction rigging surrounding it and graffiti on the lower walls. Then Nathan opens a door in one graffiti wall with a key.

“Nathan, where are we?”

Nathan pulls Harold through the door without a response. They climb marble steps with books strewn everywhere. He sees some dark halls in the distance but Nathan turns up again before Harold can get a better look. They pass through a metal gate, book carts lining the walls and Harold suddenly realizes where they are.

“We’re in a library?”

“Yes,” Nathan replies. He stops in front of a circular table at the end of the hall, windows obscured by construction nets and two laptops on the table.

“What is this?” Harold asks.

“I’ve…” Nathan finally stops moving. He puts his hands on his hips and gestures to a cork board propped up between two chairs with hardback books for support. “I’ve been helping them.” Nathan gestures again to the pictures pinned on the corkboard. “The Machine’s irrelevant list. I have been helping them.”

Harold stares at him and cannot speak for five seconds. Then he gasps out. “You built a back door?”

“Yes, I did, Harold, but that is not the issue right now. I wouldn’t have told you about this but…”

“But you went directly against what we agreed!”

“But it gave me your brother’s number, Harold!” Nathan shouts over Harold. 

Harold shuts his mouth and blinks. He looks down at the laptop now noticing a photo of Ben filling half the screen. He looks up at Nathan again. “His number?”

“Social security number. That’s all I could pry out of the Machine. I never know if it’s a victim or a perpetrator. But… it gave me Ben, Harold.”

“He’s in danger?”

Nathan stares. “The Machine searches for potential murder, Harold.”

Harold stares at the screen, his head swirling with emotions and thoughts – worry, betrayal, Ben and the machine and Nathan. Nathan made the Machine vulnerable, made a crack which anyone, even Denton Weeks, might be able to wedge open. Nathan turned himself into a vigilante justice system because of the Machine, at the cost of the Machine. Now that backdoor threat has given him Ben. Ben who just flew away to L.A. and could be hurt or in danger or, as Harold knows, could be out to hurt someone else.

All Harold can say out loud, however, is, “I wanted to tell you I proposed to Grace.”

“Harold…” Nathan smiles a little.

Harold looks down and stares at the screen. He sees the word operation name ‘contingency’ at the top of the screen. “You changed the Machine…” He whispers.

“I took precautions,” Nathan says. “Honestly and I know this will sound odd, but it’s like it wanted me to, as if it was waiting.”

Harold stares at Ben’s face, generic some photo used for a passport. He sees the other photos out of the corner of his eye, just Nathan Ingram, a middle aged man who drinks too much in this hideout among discarded books working to save them. It is a risk too far; it is an exposure the country cannot afford. Harold clenches his teeth, leans over the laptop and starts to type.

“Harold?” Nathan says but Harold does not answer him as he types to shut down the program. “Harold, what are you doing?”

“I told you, we are not going to play God. This threatens everything we… everything _I_ have built. I’m putting a stop to it.” Harold types quickly in case Nathan should try and snatch the laptop away.

_[!] delete –u aux_admin p:now  
USER DELETED_

_[!] suspend contingency p:now  
OPERATION SUSPENDED_

“Even though the Machine just gave us your brother’s number?” Nathan insists from across the table, hands flat on the wood, leaning closer. “How can you not think this matters? How can you not want to help them?” 

“I’m sorry, Nathan, truly; but people die, they’re been doing to for a long, long time.” Harold stands up straight again. “We can’t save them all.”

“And what would you tell them?” Nathan comes around the table and gestures at the social security numbers and Ben’s photo still on the screen “What would you say to your brother?”

Harold’s jaw tightens as he stares Nathan down. “I would tell _whoever_ it was that the greater good was at stake.”

“Now that it’s helped you once, you have no problem in shutting it down,” Nathan says coldly.

Harold turns and walks away from Nathan with no reply.

––––––––––––––––

Ben walks down the marina in Long Beach toward where the private boats are docked. He walks tall and with purpose, so the gun in his jacket is as unobtrusive as possible. Ben checks the numbers on the docks as he walks to confirm then looks up again toward one specific boat in the distance. Ben smiles and pulls his phone out of his inner jacket pocket. He selects the one contact in the phone and listens as it rings.

“Hello?”

Ben smiles. “Charles, it’s Benjamin.”

“How did you get this number?” Charles’ voice is terse and annoyed. Perfect.

“Doesn’t matter.” Ben turns down the next pier, closer to his quarry. “What matters is I’m going back to the island.”

“The island won’t let you come back, trust me. I’ve spent years trying to return.” Ben wonders if Charles can hear how jaded he sounds.

“Well, Charles, where you failed I’m going to succeed. Just as soon as I do one thing.”

“And what’s that, Benjamin?”

“Kill your daughter.” Ben looks down the dock as Penny puts life jackets into a chest on the deck of their yacht. “In fact I’m looking at Our Mutual Friend right now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Ben does enjoy a good bait. “It’s the name of the boat that Penny’s on.”

“Don’t you dare.” And that is the tone Ben wanted to hear.

He smiles once more. “Goodbye, Charles.”

Ben closes the phone and puts it back in his pocket without waiting for Charles to beg anymore. He does not need to hear it; he is decided. Ben walks steadily down the dock, boats to his right and cars to his left. (He does not notice Desmond taking groceries from his car). Ben turns onto the extended dock out into the line of slips where ‘Our Mutual Friend’ is docked and where Penny waits, unknowing.

“Hey, what are you….” The familiar voice from behind Ben cuts off replaced by another.

“Ben.”

Ben stops walking on the spot. Penny is staring at Ben now, her eyes drawn by the rise and sudden fall of Desmond’s voice. Ben, however, barely sees her because he is frozen – gun already half out of his jacket – at the sound of his name.

“Ben, please.” Ben turns his head and Harold keeps his eyes once they meet. “Don’t do this, Ben,” Harold says.

“What are you doing here?” Ben asks and Harold knows Ben is trying to buy time.

“You know why I’m here.”

“This does not concern you.”

Harold shakes his head once. “Everything about you concerns me, Ben.”

Ben’s grits his teeth and turns more toward Harold, his hand ready to draw the gun from in his jacket. “This does not concern you, Harold,” Ben repeats.

“Desmond, what…” Penny starts.

“Shut up!” Ben snaps at Penny without moving, still staring at Harold. “Not another word.”

Harold glances at the woman on the boat quickly but she does not try to speak again. Harold looks at Ben; both frozen in place.

“I know you think you need to do this,” Harold says. “I know what you told me, what happened…” Ben’s jaw clenches again and Harold sees Ben stiffen. “But it is not her fault.”

“It’s not about her,” Ben says and finally lets his arm fall, the gun still half held up in his hand – a threat to Desmond standing behind Harold. “It’s about what he did. About my daughter.”

“I know,” Harold says, one hand held up between them now, his eyes on Ben and not on the gun. He takes a step closer to Ben. “But you can’t punish her because of her father.” 

“Harold…” Ben hisses.

Harold lowers his voice. “And it won’t bring Alex back.”

“It’s all I can do.” Ben gasps, his voice suddenly hollow and desperate.

“Mommy?”

Harold and Ben tense at the same time.

“Go back inside, Charlie,” Penny says in obvious fear. “Go back in inside.”

“Don’t you –” Desmond starts but Harold turns quickly, holds up his other hand and stares Desmond down. Desmond balls his fists and looks for a moment like he might try to rush Harold but he remains still. 

Harold drops his arm and turns back to Ben. “You told me once I could not understand what it was like to be a father, to love someone so much, to watch them grow.”

“I… I said…” 

“And will you now let that sentiment turn to this?”

Ben’s lips press tightly together.

“Just come with me, Ben, please.”

The gun in Ben’s hand feels heavy, unfamiliar, and he realizes that Harold has never seen him like this before. Harold has never seen him armed and ready to take a life. Harold has never seen the killer in Ben. “Harold… I….” His arm drops limp at his side, his fingers barely engaged around the gun any longer.

Harold takes three steps forward and touches Ben’s shoulder. “It’s all right.”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s not.”

“Give me the gun.”

Ben hands it to Harold without hesitation. Harold smiles a ‘thank you’ at Ben then tosses the gun into the water beside them. Penny lets out an audible gasp of relief behind Ben but neither of the twins pays any mind. They only stare at each other.

“Harold…”

Harold waves a hand. “You don’t need to say anything. Let’s go.”

Harold turns them around, arm across Ben’s back, as they walk down the dock away from Penny and Ben’s supposed revenge. Desmond stares at them more confused now than angry. Harold looks at the man as they pass.

“Are you the good twin?” he asks.

Harold and Ben give Desmond matching unamused stares. Desmond takes a step back with his expression some combination of surprise and worry. Then they keep walking, side by side, and do not look back.

In the car Harold rented at the airport, Harold sits in the driver seat and Ben in the front passenger seat. They stare out of the windshield in silence. The car is not on; the keys are not even in the ignition but still clutched in Harold’s hand.

“Would you have really done it?” Harold asks as he finally looks at Ben. “Killed that woman?”

“Yes,” Ben replies and does not look at Harold.

“Ben…” Harold gasps.

“She wouldn’t have been the first.” Ben turns his head and looks at Harold now. “You know that.”

Harold does not look away in the face of Ben’s frankness nor does he reply. Ben breathes in once through his nose and watches Harold. Neither looks reproachful to the other.

“How did you find me?” Ben asks.

Harold touches the arm of his wire rim glasses. “You left a piece of paper on –”

Ben shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.” Ben watches Harold’s face – drawn, concerned, unwilling – and he turns around partway in his seat to face Harold. “It was your machine.” Harold swallows and it is all the confirmation Ben needs. “Your machine told you.”

“It gave me your social security number as an irrelevant number.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. “You mean to Nathan?”

Harold frowns. “You knew?”

Ben only smiles. “Your friend is not what I expected.” Then he tilts his head. “However, as I recall, his numbers were confined to New York City?” Ben gestures toward the window and the world beyond. “We are just a bit further away now.”

Harold clears his throat once. “I think… I think it gave us your number…” Harold pauses for one second. “Because you are relevant to me.”

Ben stares at Harold and only can think to say, “Your machine knows who I am?”

Harold laughs once and smiles for the first time since arriving at the marina. “My machine knows everything.”

“Including that you care about me.” Harold’s smile diminishes. Ben tilts his head. “Quite a machine.”

“You’re not going to go back, are you?” Harold asks, changing the subject.

“To kill Penelope Widmore?” Ben looks away and turns back around in his seat toward the windshield. “No, and please don’t give me some speech about the value of human life, Harold. You don’t need to attempt to be the parent in this relationship.”

“I’m sorry,” Harold says after a moment and turns away toward the windshield as well, “about Alex.”

“Yes, well,” Ben says and his voice is hard and hollow and Harold feels the sorrow in his chest like a stab wound. Ben looks back at Harold. “It’s too late now.”

Harold reaches his hand toward Ben. “Ben, I…”

“I know,” Ben says and grips Harold’s hand.

“I wish I could –”

“You can’t.” Ben squeezes Harold’s hand. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not,” Harold says and squeezes back.

They sit for a while, quiet, hands together, watching people pass on the road, boats rocking barely perceptibly in the water, until finally they pull their hands away at the same time. Harold passes the keys back to his right hand and slides them into the ignition.

“We should go home, Ben,” Harold says as he starts the car. “There is a flight in a few hours we can take.”

“Thank you, Harold. I do want to go home.” Then Ben turns and looks at Harold. “But my home isn’t the same as yours.”

Harold frowns and looks at Ben again. “What? Ben… you’re not. You’re going back to…”

“I’m sorry, Harold, these past two years together have been…” Ben smiles fondly. “They have been some of my happiest.”

“Then don’t leave,” Harold pleads.

Ben shakes his head. “I have a different plane to catch, Harold; one I hope isn’t going to land so much as crash.”

––––––––––––––––

When Harold lands at JFK and turns his cellphone back on it buzzes with a voicemail. 

_I’m going to a reporter, Harold. I’m going to tell him what we’ve done, what we’ve built. I know you would tell me not to, you’ll want to know how you can stop me. You can’t, Harold. If I can’t have the irrelevant list then I need to come clean. I am meeting him at the 34th street ferry terminal today at noon. …You should be there. I hope you will be._

Then the voicemail cuts off with Nathan’s voice still ringing in Harold’s ears.

Ben is the last one on the plane at LAX.

“Thank you for not closing,” Ben says to the stewardess at the door.

He walks down the aisle and sees Sayid staring back at him in horror. After their last meeting and his race around LA with Hugo it is hardly surprising. He sees Jack, Sun and then he sees Kate and starts to smile. They did it.

Harold stands in the middle of the living room of Grace’s house. The time is 11:00 AM. He keeps looking at his watch, flipping open his cellphone. He stares out of the window not really seeing beyond it.

“Just tell me what it is, Harold.”

Harold turns his head to see Grace standing in the doorway to the next room. She leans with her shoulder against the wall. 

Harold sighs. “It’s a question of morality and conscience, I suppose.”

Grace raises her eyebrows. “Hypothetically?”

Harold stares at her for two beats. “No.”

“What is it then?”

Harold clears his throat. “It’s… work related.”

“I’m afraid I’m a computer novice.”

“No, it’s…” Harold paces for a moment then he stops and turns toward her. “What if there was something which was the right thing to do, the good thing to do, but possibly it was not the right way to do it? How would you… how would you justify that?”

“Are you asking me if the ends justify the means, Harold?” Grace asks him seriously.

Harold opens his mouth then closes it again. Television shows and movies in most instances would have one believe the ends never justify the means; that one must always be right and good, all at once; that criminals are always wrong and that right always wins. 

“If you’d done something wrong even if you did not think it was wrong.” Harold holds his hand up in the air as if he could pantomime his dilemma. “If… if you thought someone had the right to know…”

Grace stands up straight, walks across the wood floor and puts her hand on Harold’s arm. “It sounds like you are trying to argue yourself out of taking the harder path.” She smiles. “I think, no matter what it is, you should try to do the right thing. Sometimes harder is the way you have to go.”

Harold nods then leans in and kisses her. She wraps her arms around him, kisses him again and holds him close. “I believe in you, Harold,” she whispers in his ear.

“I love you, Grace.” He pulls away. “I have something to go do. I will tell you everything when I get back.”

Grace grins. “Good luck. I know it will turn out all right.”

Ben sits in the back of the plane, Jack in the seat across from him. Ben had stepped away for a moment to give Jack time to read John’s suicide note. Ben did not know John had left one. He must admit he is curious as to what it says.

“Did the note help?” Ben asks Jack.

Jack folds up the note slowly – only a few lines, Ben cannot read it at this distance – then puts it back into the envelope. “No.”

Ben frowns and rubs his thumb over the edge of ‘Ulysses’ in his hand. “It was his choice, Jack.” Jack turns and looks at Ben. “No matter what that note said.”

“But he might not have made that choice if…” Jack cuts himself off and shifts away again.

Ben watches him then turns back to his book. What choice might Ben have made instead in that room? What choice might he have made at the dock without Harold? What if…

Then he says, “There is no point in ‘ifs,’ Jack.”

Harold walks down the pier, past the ticket stand, and toward the awning for the ferry; a sizeable queue of people wait to board. Harold looks down and checks his watch, it is 11:58. He wonders what Nathan has already told this reporter. What exactly is their plan? Do they tell the whole story? Try to explain the Machine? Do they make a case for the continuation of the Machine or just admit the truth?

Harold looks up at one of the NYPD city cameras on a pole. “If they decide to turn you off… then I’m sorry.”

He turns away and walks determinedly toward the line of people, his eyes searching for Nathan among the crowd. They started this together, they should end it together.

Ben wakes from a slight doze at a bump in their smooth sailing. He blinks then sits up straight at attention. He looks out the window, dark now as they fly away from the day. It appears to be raining outside. Then another bump rocks the plane.

Ben turns to look at Jack across the aisle. Jack already stares back at him. Ben’s face breaks into a smile.

“Harold!”

Harold turns and sees Nathan standing beyond the line of people on his own, clearly waiting for him. Harold smiles as Nathan grins back at him – Harold realizes for a moment that Nathan has not smiled so genuinely in months, maybe longer.

“I knew you would come, my friend!”

A white light starts to fill the plane. Ben leans his head back against the seat and smiles as the light grows and grows and swallows them up to send him home.

A flash of light explodes behind Nathan. Harold hears a distant noise like a boom and he feels himself fly back. ‘No… not now…’ In that one second he tries to keep his eyes on Nathan but the light behind Nathan blinds him. Then Harold does not feel himself hit the ground with a crack.


	11. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Harold's pride murdered Nathan._
> 
> _Ben realizes for once he wants to tell the truth._
> 
> [Harold and Ben's lives break down, waiting to be built anew]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So bit of fudging of medical practice but I tried to stay as close as possible. Getting closer to the end here. Thank you all again for staying with me!

When Harold wakes up the first thing he sees is a blur of bodies lying on lines of cots and people in blue rushing around. (If he is dead, Harold expected to see Ben). Then he feels an ache at on the back of his neck. He tries to move but a stabbing pain shoots through his neck and down his spine making him gasp. He reaches back then sees blood on his fingertips.

He remembers arriving at the ferry, seeing Nathan waiting for him beside the line of people and then a sudden flash of light.

“Nathan?” Harold starts quietly then louder. “Nathan!”

A doctor appears at his side saying something he does not listen to.

“I have to find my friend,” Harold insists.

She starts speaking more, Harold hears, “you’ve sustained injuries to your neck and lower back,” but then she flits away again as someone calls her. 

Harold’s ears ring with the sound of beeping medical machinery all around him. As he turns to his other side, he hears a doctor say ‘I’m calling it.’ Then Harold sees Nathan lying bloody on a gurney.

––––––––––––––––

When Ben wakes up the first thing he sees is John Locke. (If he is dead, Ben expected to see Harold). However, Ben feels the cot beneath him, a pillow under his head, sees other people on beds behind John. His neck and back ache like when he had cancer. Ben hears other people speaking quietly in the distance of the dark room.

He remembers the other Ajira flight passengers, going to find an outrigger and Sun following him. Then a sharp pain in his head. Of course, Sun betrayed him, hardly a surprise when her previous plan had been to kill him.

“Hello, Ben,” John says.

Ben stares. He has seen the island heal people – it made John walk again the first time around – but it does not cure death. For a few seconds Ben is genuinely uncertain whether this is where death decided to place him.

Then John smiles at him, “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

––––––––––––––––

Nathan is dead. Harold counts two seconds and the reality remains – blood on Nathan's temple, his shirt ripped open, doctors around him – Nathan is dead.

Harold whispers, “Nathan...” as they pull a sheet up over Nathan's face.

“It's done.” Two men in trench coats stand just a few feet away from the foot of Nathan's gurney. “We'll find out if he talked to anyone else.”

Everything falls into place for Harold. The light behind Nathan was an explosion, not an accident like the doctor said; the explosion was meant for Nathan, for both of them, because they planned to go public. The government just sacrificed a dock full of people to kill one man because of what they – because of what Harold built. He has to run.

The two men in trench coats turn the other way to search through the rows of injured people. Pain stabs through Harold's neck and back as he tries to move. He puts a hand on his neck to stabilize it then throws off the covers and sits up. He forces his breathing to remain calm, to push through the pain. He stands up, feels how unsteady he is, then reaches for a crutch leaning against a nearby bed. Harold holds onto his neck with one hand, the crutch with the other and moves toward the gymnasium doorway as quickly as he can.

As Harold passes a white cloth privacy screen he hears, “Harold?”

Harold sees Grace rush through the doorway and he ducks back behind the screen.

“Harold?” She calls again as she walks further into the trauma center.

Harold shifts around the screen so he remains concealed but can still see Grace. She stops and talks to a police officer who gestures toward the pile of personal affects heaped on the edge of the gym stage. Harold remembers as soon as she picks it up, her face contorting in pain; he brought the book he used to propose to Grace with him as a talisman for confidence to stay the course. 

Harold wants to go to her. He cannot let Grace believe he is dead. They only just got engaged. They are supposed to start a life together; he needs her. 

Then Harold sees the two men, stalking through the lined up cots, searching each face. Harold remembers, though it was years ago, the government representatives who worked with Nathan to obtain the Machine have seen his face. If they see it again they will put the pieces together and, if they are willing to sacrifice all these strangers here from the ferry, Grace with an actual connection to Harold would definitely be worth another bullet. 

Harold turns away from Grace's grief and moves toward the doorway. He limps through the door and out into the hall, people still rushing around him. Harold sees a jacket resting over a chair. He can only imagine what the back of his neck must look like. He pauses, leans the crutch against the wall and plants what feels like his better leg to steady himself. He picks up the jacket and struggles one armed to get the sleeve on. He somehow manages with the help of gravity to get one sleeve partially on. His neck keeps screaming in protest and he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Then he switches hands at his neck and reaches back to shrug his other arm into its sleeve. It is awkward but he somehow manages it and gets the jacket on. He picks up the crutch again and follows the trickle of people in the opposite direction.

A uniformed woman suddenly stops in his path. “Whoa, sir, where are you going?”

“My doctor said I could go,” Harold replies.

She frowns. “You look a bit unsteady, sir.”

“He said I wasn't life threatening and they needed the bed.” She still looks unconvinced so Harold smiles in a tired way. “My son is coming to pick me up.”

“We need to speak to all witnesses at –”

“I spoke to an officer already,” Harold cuts over her. “I think his name was John or Joe?”

Her face flickers in recognition when he says the name, 'Joe.' Then she nods at him. “Be careful on your way out, sir.” Then she moves around him again back toward the trauma center.

Harold makes his way through the halls until he reaches what appears to be an exterior door. He pushes his way through outside. It is dark now, many hours since sundown. It was noon when he arrived at the ferry. How long has he been unconscious? Harold watches the cars go by and sees a taxi heading in his direction. He hobbles toward the curb, props the crutch under his elbow and raises his hand part way to hail it. As the taxi slides up to the curb, Harold thinks to check his pocket. Did they take his wallet? Fortunately, his wallet and keys are still in his pants pocket.

“Thank you,” Harold says as he climbs into the taxi, hissing once in pain then angling his crutch in and laying it over his feet.

He gives the driver the address to his Harold Wren apartment. 

As they move along the streets, Harold tries to regain some semblance of equilibrium over what has happened. Nathan is dead. Harold breathes in and lets it out again, stuttering over his own desire to sob. His best friend, his partner, the man he built a company and an A.I. with has been murdered in a cover up attempt. It seems surreal and far too real at once. Grace now believes that Harold has died. Harold shuts his eyes and keeps telling himself to breathe in and out. His neck and back hurt and he wonders how long he can keep going before adrenaline and force of will are not enough.

“Wait,” Harold suddenly says to the driver.

Harold Wren has a connection to Nathan Ingram; they are friends. There is no guarantee the government will not check Harold Wren’s apartment.

“Wait, take me to...”

Harold has many aliases, and many safe houses. However, he has something he needs to find out first.

“East 30th Street and Lexington,” Harold says.

When the taxi drops him off, Harold manages to limp down the alleyway to the door which Nathan showed him. Harold does not have the key but he is aware of the mechanics involved in picking a lock. It does not take Harold long to make his way inside the library. What does take Harold longer than anticipated are the stairs. The pain in his neck has been the most constant, stabbing and throbbing and only aided by his hand keeping his neck in place. However, he was unaware of the extent of the injury through his spine and lower back until he had to move his hips in an upward shift that used to be completely automatic and easy. Harold sees stars and needs to pull his hand away from his neck to grasp the guard rail so he does not fall down. It takes him about a minute of breathing until the pain subsides. He looks up at the number of steps and very nearly turns back.

Then he looks at his watch on his wrist; eleven–forty–five. “No...”

Harold grits his teeth and steps up the next step. He grips the banister with one hand and the crutch in the other as he slowly and painfully makes his way up the stairs. He runs a list of his aliases in his head to keep himself focused on the task at hand: Harold Martin, dead. Harold Wren, under suspicion. Harold Finch, safe. Harold Crane, safe. 

Harold breathes out a relieved sigh when he makes it to the top after about ten minutes of painful progress. “Okay.”

Then he turns down the hall, through the open gates and toward the table with Nathan's laptops. He leans the crutch against the table then falls into the chair, careful not to aggravate his back or neck. The laptops are still on. 

Harold turns to the web camera of one laptop and cannot stop himself; “Did you know?”

He wants a text box to appear, an immediate response that says 'no.' He wants the Machine to tell him there was no way Harold could have known. Then he remembers, the Machine is gone and all he has is Nathan's back door. Harold puts his fingers to the keys and reinstates the contingency function Nathan made. A long list of social security numbers for that day appears. Harold highlights one which looks familiar and an information file with a photo pops up. It is Nathan staring back at him.

Suddenly the list disappears again. A clock appears in the top corner of the screen three seconds before midnight. Harold counts down with the clock, three, two, one and the Machine reboots, the irrelevant list erased. 

Nathan was categorized as 'irrelevant.' Harold hears every single moment when Nathan tried to tell him, begged him to understand, _everyone is relevant to someone._

Harold realizes like the clearing of a fog that he nearly died today, his best friend did die, and if Harold had died, Ben could have come with him.

––––––––––––––––

Ben walks through the Hydra station, dark and dusty from years of disuse now. He glances into rooms he used to know so well. The conference room where he and Juliet met with women prepared to die in order to propagate; Juliet's lab which yielded no workable results. Ben still wonders what the reason was. Is it still happening now? 

He passes by a filing room. Alex used to sit in there, working on her Latin or hiding with Karl which she thought Ben did not know about. He walks by another rarely used room with lockers. If Ben remembers right, the third locker on the left was where Alex kept books she thought Ben would disapprove of her reading. How could he disapprove when she stole them from the very same Dharma library that Ben had when he was her age?

Finally Ben reaches his old office at the end of the long hall. Papers scatter the floor which Ben pushes aside with one foot. Dirt sticks to the outside of the window behind his desk and leaves poke through in a few places. No doubt it will only take a couple years more before the jungle truly reclaims the Dharma facility. However, Ben wants one thing first.

Ben walks around to the back of his desk. He opens the top drawer on one side and pulls out the framed photograph from inside. Ben pulls his glasses from his pocket, puts them on and looks down at the photo. He and Alex pose side by side, smiling and normal, like a family that never hurt or abandoned each other. He stares at it for a moment then flips it over. He opens the back and pulls out the photo from the frame. He stares at it for another moment trying to remember how long before Alex died the photo was taken.

“What's that?”

Ben looks up to see John standing a few feet from the desk in his funeral suit.

“Just something sentimental,” Ben says quickly, putting the photo in his pocket.

John makes a nonplussed face then starts to walk slowly around the desk. “So this is your old office?”

Ben mirrors John in the other direction, trying to keep a safe distance between them. The way John speaks, the way he moves now is so languid, confident, oddly dissimilar from the man who yearned to believe through his confusion when he first came to the island. Does coming back from the dead cure all insecurities? Does John now have a brand new approach to life because this is his second try?

“I never pictured you leading your people from behind a desk.” John starts to sit in Ben's chair. “Seems so... corporate.”

Ben purses his lips. “Is there something that you needed, John?”

“Well, I was hoping we could talk about the elephant in the room.”

“I assume you're referring to the fact that I killed you?”

“Yeah.”

Ben has done a lot of lying in his life. It is hard to tell how it became a second nature for him. If he asked Harper she probably would have pulled out that psychology degree and said something like 'abusive father' or 'childhood trauma.' Ben would probably agree with her; with his father lying was a defense mechanism, a survival tool. As an adult did he need to continue? Or was the island the real reason lies became his guiding star? In a place where the truth is elusive and belief is more reliable than facts, how does lying not become one's bailiwick? Not to mention, since he was nine years old the most important person in Ben's life has been a secret hidden across the sea. Perhaps his reason for lying is simply loss. He cannot tell the truth of his failure to regain his brother by his side.

Right now, in this moment, even if he were not accustomed to lying it would be his only choice. How could he tell a person that he murdered now alive again that his goal had been exactly that?

“It was the only way to get you back to the island along with as many of those who left as possible,” Ben says, which may have ended up being true but was not a guarantee at the time. “You do remember John, it’s why you left in the first place, to try and convince them to come back? But you failed and the only way to bring them together was by your death and you understood that, it's why you were about to kill yourself when I stopped you.”

“If all I had to do was die, Ben, then why did you stop me?”

“You had critical information that would have died with you. Once you'd given it to me... well, I just didn't have time to talk you back into hanging yourself.” 

Ben pauses. He wants, for maybe just a moment, to ask John why he gave up so easily, why he thought suicide was better than a momentary set back? Ben has failed and rebuilt many times. Why would John give up on the island so easily? He should be thanking Ben for murdering him to take away such a permanent failure. 

“And look at you, John,” Ben says out loud. “I was right. You're here, you're back... maybe you knew this would happen too. If you believed in the island so much as to kill yourself for it then you coming back proves you are worth a place on this island. That's why I did it, because it was in the best interests of the island.”

Though, in Ben's real opinion, the best interest of the island did not include John returning to life.

John stares at Ben then flicks his hand up from his face. “I was just hoping for an apology.”

Ben stares at him and does not reply, 'why don’t you apologize to me for coming back?'

“I've decided to help you, Ben,” John says as he stands up from Ben's chair.

“Help me do what?”

“Do what you say you were on your way to do, be judged.”

When he awoke to John alive and his questions and John accused him of fleeing, it was the first thing Ben thought of – his own judgment from the monster for returning to the island against the rules.

“That's not something you want to see, John.”

“If everything you've done has been in the best interest of the island then I'm sure the monster will understand,” John says. “Let's go.”

Ben stares at John as he smiles and walks around Ben toward the office door. John is very different than before Ben murdered him.

“Time to go, Ben,” John says as he stands at the doors.

Ben turns around fully and looks at John. “You really plan to come with me?”

“Well, you helped me, didn't you? I should help you back.” He grins and the expression is quietly vengeful in a way John never was before, yet also oddly supportive. Ben cannot explain who this new person is in front of him.

Ben wills himself to move toward the door, toward what he would certainly rather do alone.

“You're different, John,” Ben says as they walk down the hall.

John only smiles, still looking straight ahead. “I imagine death will do that to a person.”

“Perhaps you should thank me then.”

“I wouldn't go that far, Ben.”

They walk down the hall past room after room, a tree branch Ben sees broken through a window now in a lab. Ben remembers when these halls were active and hopeful and united with a common purpose in tune with the island. Ben remembers Alex walking down the hall, slingshot in her back pocket and smile on her face.

_Dad, they don't need you right now. You said you'd come to the cliffs with me. Father, daughter time, right?_

Ben has to remind himself that Alex did not always hate him; that once she was just his daughter. It is hard, however, to hear past the begging for her life and the sound of a gunshot.

“I don't think you know what my judgment might entail, John,” Ben says.

John looks at him this time as they reach the external exit. He smiles and pushes the door open. “I think I do, Ben.”

John's expression plainly says he knows Ben could die and he is not worried about it. Ben wants to tell John he should worry because if Ben dies, he could take Harold with him.

––––––––––––––––

Harold spends the night checking all of his aliases. What options does he have? Harold is good at protecting himself, at allaying suspicion and keeping all his eggs in many baskets.

Harold Martin is dead; Grace made sure of that. Harold Martin has a will which leaves any assets in that name to Grace. Compared to most of Harold's assets, what Grace will receive seems like a pittance. However, Harold Martin had life insurance so that is not nothing. 

Next comes Harold Wren. Harold Wren has a 401K from Universal Heritage Insurance, owns a condo and has a good amount of money in the bank. Harold Wren is best friends with Nathan Ingram, knows his family. Yet in all of Harold's digging the government does not appear to have connected Wren in any way to IFT or the Machine to make Wren a threat.

“I've done my job well,” Harold tells himself.

Harold Wren could live. Harold could mourn with Olivia and Will right now. He could find comfort in those he cares for, even if their relationships have become more distant over the years of building the Machine. All three of them lost one of the most important people to them today.

“What should I say?” Harold asks out loud. Then pain shoots down his spine as he shifts in the harsh wooden chair. 

Can Harold Wren really keep on living? Harold is injured now, severely so; he can feel it the more time passes. How could he explain a neck and back injury on the same day as the ferry bombing which took Nathan away? He couldn't just disappear to heal then come back. It would be far too suspicious. But can he also abandon Olivia and Will, especially Will, when they might need him? Can he make them face the mourners and the funeral alone? Ben would tell him not to be sentimental, that sacrifice is sometimes necessary and Ben would be right. If Harold really wants to protect those he cares about then Harold Wren has to die too.

“I'm sorry,” Harold says. Then he hacks into the NYPD report of the bombing and adds Harold Wren's name to the list of those lost.

Harold spends the rest of the night confirming the stability of his various aliases and moving his money around. His silent partner share of IFT remains secure under his Harold Crane alias. He transfers money to different bank accounts, increases the wealth of Harold Finch through shell corporations and off shore accounts never connected directly to the name. He checks his Harold Wren assets, which would have gone to Nathan, are now defaulting to Will Ingram instead. (Will may not have all the emotional support he could have but he will be financially secure). The bulk of Harold's billions remain secure with investor Harold Crane while plenty more scatters between Harold Partridge, Harold Gull, and Harold Swift.

A tone beeps on the laptop. Harold created a program and set up a tracker on his phone years ago which allows him to remotely access the phone. His phone had not been in his pocket when he left the wreckage of the ferry bombing. It must lie among the ferry wreckage personal affects, further proof of Harold Wren’s death. Harold queues up the voicemail of his phone through the program. The message is from Will.

“Uncle Harold! Where are you? It's Will. Please call us, call me!” Harold hears him breathe in deeply. “It's...” Will makes a sobbing noise. “It's dad, something happened, shit... please, please call me.”

Harold shuts off the program and covers his eyes with one hand. He once promised Will Ingram he would not leave him too. “I'm sorry,” Harold whispers again.

If Harold had only given Nathan what he asked for. Nathan wanted to help save lives and Harold shut him out. Nathan had a conscience, unlike Harold. He cared about each person, real people, not just the numbers Harold calculated. When Harold cut him off Nathan had to be honest and the government murdered him for it. Essentially, Harold killed Nathan because he would not let Nathan compromise the great thing Harold had created. Harold's pride murdered Nathan.

When the clock reaches seven AM, Harold sits stiffly at the computer – aliases strengthened, money moved, evidence of hacks erased, and loved ones protected from the danger of himself. Harold’s neck and back hurt so badly he has difficulty seeing properly.

“I'm sorry, I...” Harold is unsure who he keeps apologizing to. The list is longer than he realized before.

Harold closes the laptop without shutting down; he cannot see the keys well enough to do so and his muscle memory will not engage, too preoccupied with pain. Harold puts a hand against the back of his neck and flails until he grips the crutch. He leans heavily on the crutch to stand. He stumbles but hits the table instead of falling down. He breathes in and out then moves. He needs to rest, he needs pain medication, he needs to lie down, (he needs help).

Harold limps down the hall toward the stacks. Then he sees a reading room down one row of a bookcase with a table and some chairs. He limps into the row then sees what appears to be some sort of cushioned bench.

“All right,” Harold gasps.

He makes his way down the row, crying out with each step. He scoots around the table, leans the crutch against the wall then half sits, half falls onto the bench. A dusty pillow lies on one end. Harold eases his head down onto the pillow, just enough to support his neck a little, then lies flat on the bench. (It feels long enough to have space for Nathan’s height and Harold knows Nathan slept in this spot as he worried over his irrelevant list).

Harold lies on his back, the pain less but still substantial. He feels exhausted and hopes sleep will come despite the pain. He thinks of Nathan's face at the ferry, his joy at seeing Harold joining him. Before the irrelevant list disappeared, Harold noticed his own social security number was not on the list. Was the Machine unable to predict Harold going with Nathan, to 'come clean?' Or perhaps the Machine believed Harold would protect it instead? Who exactly did Harold betray in going to the ferry? He knows who he murdered. Harold feels tears leak out of his eyes and wonders if he even deserves the safety of sleep.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and John walk through the tunnels beneath the island's temple with torches in hand. John told Ben he believed Ben wants to be judged for the death of his daughter, not breaking any rules of the island. Ben does not need to consider whether or not John is right; it is a fact. The island's rules are not always so absolute and Alex did not deserve to die.

“Appreciate you showing me the way,” Ben says to John as they stop along one tunnel. “But I think I can take it from here.”

“You got it,” John replies.

“I'll meet you outside, if I live,” Ben starts. Then suddenly he falls through the floor.

Ben hits stone on the floor below, rocks and dirt falling around him. His head rings and he has to blink several times before his eyes focus again.

“Ben!” John shouts above him. “Are you all right?”

Ben swallows, sees his torch still burning beside him, then sits up. “Never better.”

“I'll find something to pull you up!” John says before disappearing from the hole above Ben again.

Ben picks up his torch and stands. He looks around where he fell. The stone walls display carvings like Egyptian hieroglyphics nearly from floor to ceiling. Ben walks along the wall, trying to discern some meaning from their order. As he follows the wall, he finds a stone slab partially raised from the floor with uniform holes in it. Then he hears the distinctive sound of the smoke monster.

It appears Ben fell into exactly where he needs to be.

Ben's torch suddenly blows out and smoke starts to pour out of the holes in the slab. The smoke pools over his feet, rises up and surrounds him. Ben expects pain, to be thrown against the wall or maybe electrocuted. He is used to pain; pain has been a constant in his life. What he is not prepared for, what he is very emotionally unprepared to watch in the smoke enclosed around him, is a replay of his daughter’s life.

_Ben's own voice. “It's not an it. This is a child!”_

_Alex laughing on a swing as Ben pushes her._

_Ben holding up Alex to meet Harold. The two of them identically smiling as Alex says, “You look the same as daddy.”_

_Alex's face. “I hate your guts, I wish you were dead!”_

_“Please, daddy… please...”_

_Ben standing outside the house. “I would think several men with guns should be able to handle me without the use of a sixteen year old girl?”_

_Then the sound of a bullet which pierces Ben’s heart as much as Alex’s head._

Ben feels a pit inside of him, a hole that will never fill up again. He failed the one thing he was supposed to do as a father. He thinks maybe he does deserve to die, what better justice could Alex find?

Ben whispers, “Please don't take Harold too.”

Then the smoke suddenly pulls away, ignores Ben’s internal pleas for his own retribution, and Ben lives.

“Daddy?”

Harold turns around and sees Alex. She stands in front of him, the same as he remembers from three years ago when he could not save her.

“Alex... oh Alex.” He wants to pick her up and run away, protect her better than he did before, but part of him knows this is not his Alex. “I'm so, so sorry,” he says anyway. “It was all my fault.”

“I know.”

Sorrow stabs through Ben's heart and maybe the smoke monster did decide to punish him after all. What could be worse than his daughter dead and seeing her again without an ability to bring her back?

Then the strangest part happens when Alex pins him to one stone pole then shouts in his face about how he must follow John Locke or else; “Say it! Say you’ll follow him!”

“Yes, I’ll follow him. I swear!”

Ben wonders if the island only let him come back so it could show him how helpless it made him. He sacrificed his daughter and his home for the ‘good’ of the island. So when he returned the island wanted to show him how neither one belonged to him anymore. Death is not his punishment; it is living.

“Ben?” Ben looks up through the hole in the ceiling, Alex's visage disappeared and John's head back at the broken hole above him. “What happened?”

“It let me live,” Ben replies in despair.

––––––––––––––––

Harold awakes the next day in pain. He gasps and literally cannot move for ten minutes, just breathes in and out. He wonders if he will be forced to dial 911. However, after a hand held against the back of his neck again and very calculated motions of his back, Harold is able to sit up on the cushioned bench. He shuts his eyes, focusing on his breath. Then he opens them and looks down the book corridor back toward the hall to the computer set up. The row through the stacks appears longer than last night.

“Okay.” Harold breathes out sharply, grits his teeth and stands up. 

He almost falls and sees stars in his vision. Harold grasps for the crutch half blindly and somehow manages to grab it. He leans heavily on the crutch, his other hand still holding his neck. He hobbles through the reading room, through the shelves and into the Nathan’s make shift headquarters. The whole trip takes Harold twenty minutes. By the time he sits again in a chair at the table, sweat lines soak the edges of his hair and Harold recites PI as far as possible to distract himself. When he reaches the one hundredth digit, Harold opens the computer. 

He barely made the journey from one room to another, his walking is worse than just the day before, he knows he has a neck injury and he cannot expect to survive broken like this – He must find help.

“Mr. Crane,” Dr. Chowdhry says as Harold sits in a chair across from him. “You should have been admitted to the ER with these injuries.” 

Harold would have nodded if his neck allowed it. Instead he smiles with all the force of a billionaire. “I prefer more specialized treatment, such as yourself.”

“You mean private?” This doctor clearly does not mince words.

“I mean, I want the level of care I pay for.” Harold gestures to the initial check he wrote which now sits in front of Dr. Chowdhry. 

He frowns at Harold. “Why did you not seek treatment at the scene of the car accident? The pain alone…”

“Doctor,” Harold says and his voice changes to the programer, the problem to be solved with no option of discussion. “My reasons are my own. The amount of money I am willing to pay for your specialization should also guarantee me a limit of questions.”

Dr. Chowdhry looks displeased but not thrown off or even uncomfortable. “I see. Very well.”

The doctor takes x-rays of Harold’s neck, his lower back, even his pelvis in case Harold’s moving around since the accident aggravated the injury further. Harold bites his cheek over and over to stop himself crying out; the ibuprofen he took prior was not nearly enough to help. He knows hiding pain and symptoms from one’s doctor usually diminishes one’s care level. However, the x-rays should show enough.

“Your spine was damaged, especially around the C3 to C5 vertebra, up here.” He gestures at the x-ray. “You can’t keep walking around on it as it is.”

“What is my treatment option?”

“I would recommend a posterolateral fusion.” Harold frowns at him and Dr. Chowdhry continues. “I would place a bone graft between the transverse processes on your three vertebra. Then I will have to add metal pins and rods to increase stability. You will lose some range of motion in your neck.”

“How much range of motion?”

“There won’t be a lot of turning of your head independently of your neck due to the pins.” 

Harold presses his lips together. “How soon can you complete the surgery?”

Dr. Chowdhry purses his lips. “I would need a form filled –“

Harold cuts him off, “I believe I can add something to your fee to avoid any forms.” He raises his eyebrows at Dr. Chowdhry’s concerned face. “Enough to remove any fear of a future lawsuit, I assure you.” 

He nods back at Harold. “Tomorrow then.”

Harold smiles. “Good.”

“Now,” Dr. Chowdhry adds, “As to the lower back pain. We can try surgery there as well. The recovery time is much longer, however.”

Harold frowns. “Is it necessary?”

“Necessary?” He looks somewhat appalled that Harold would ask. “You should be able to walk again without lower back surgery if that is what you are asking. The spinal injury is the big problem.”

“Then let’s stick to that.”

“You are already favoring your right side,” Dr. Chowdhry insists, “with back surgery –”

“I only have so much time,” Harold interrupts him, “and none for questions as to why.”

“Fine.” Dr. Chowdhry frowns. “The spinal surgery will ease some of the problems appearing in your lower back but you will likely still have pain.”

Harold stares at the x-rays up on the light boards in front of him. He can visibly see cracks in his neck and imagines himself flying with the force of the explosion, his fragile human body smashing into cement.

“For how long?” Harold asks.

Dr. Chowdhry tilts his head then crosses his arms. “For the rest of your life.”

Harold feels a strange sense of déjà vu as he lies on his stomach in the surgical room. As the anesthesiologist covers his mouth and instructs him to count backwards from twenty, Harold wishes Ben were here in the same instant that he fervently hopes Ben cannot feel any of this. As he begins to fade, Harold wonders if he will need to hide from Ben too.

––––––––––––––––

Ben walks along the beach among the people he formerly led, Sun somewhere among them, on a journey started by John to see Jacob. Ben hasn’t seen any of these people in two years and strangely he finds he missed very few of them. The individuals he bonded with most, those from when he was young and had no reservations yet about the island or Jacob or his destiny, died before he left. His fellow islanders do not seem to have missed him either. They have all taken to their new leader quite readily if their current journey toward Jacob is any indication. Richard, of course, is another matter.

However, Ben worries more about John and their trip now than anyone else around them. After all, none of them know about John’s real intention, to kill Jacob. 

Ben cannot understand it. Why would John want to kill Jacob when it was the island, probably Jacob, that brought him back, that healed him when he first landed here? How can the man he remembers be so changed now? Does a return from death turn one casually cruel and confidently ambitious?

“Why haven’t you told him yet?”

Ben glances at John now walking beside him. “Told who, what?”

“Richard, why haven’t you told him about my plans for Jacob?”

“If by 'plans' you mean murdering him, John, I assumed you want to keep that a secret.”

John laughs. “When has that ever stopped you?”

Ben frowns. “Well, I started thinking differently about things when my dead daughter threatened to destroy me if I didn’t do everything you said.” 

“Wait, wait, wait.” John comes around and stops in Ben’s path. “When did this happen?”

“In that cavern beneath the temple, when we went to see the monster.”

John smiles in an unsettling way. “So you’re willing to do what I say no matter what it is?”

Ben stares at him, his voice low. “Yes.”

It’s not a lie, not completely. He is wadding through an area of uncertainty right now. It reminds him of nights when his father opened a bottle of whiskey instead of the usual beers. The ground felt unstable as Ben watched him, any slight noise a warning shot and just breathing felt like a daring risk. Ben does not understand John any longer and the island does not speak to Ben; the path ahead remains unclear, undefined. So Ben toes the line and stays silent, waiting for the boom.

John sets off the boom. “Well then, I guess I won’t have to convince you after all.”

“Convince me to do what?”

John smiles over his shoulder. “I’m not going to kill Jacob, Ben, you are.” Then he turns and walks on down the hill leaving Ben reeling in his wake.

Ben thinks his punishment must be broader than he thought, more elusive. He let his daughter die, he broke the island’s rules and he murdered John Locke. So John wants to pay Ben back in kind by making him murder Jacob, the island even, which was once his saving grace.

“How…” Ben whispers. How could he murder Jacob when he has never met him, when Jacob and the island were all he had for so long with Harold torn away? How can John ask him that?

Because you murdered John first, Ben answers himself. John’s sense of vengeance is more elusive than Ben’s but it feels just as real. 

Suddenly Ben wishes Harold were here more than anything.

“Ben?” Ben turns to Sun now standing beside him. “Why have you stopped?”

“I was thinking.” He starts to walk again with her.

She watches him for a moment but does not ask any sort of follow up. It seems very Sun of her; right now she only cares about finding Jin. Ben wonders if they had met under different circumstances perhaps the two of them could have been friends. Though Ben probably would only have been able to get along with the single minded, mission driven Sun she is now and not the woman who first crashed on this island.

“Can I ask you a question, Sun?” Ben asks as they walk, not looking at each other.

“What?”

“With how difficult it was to leave this island for you before, why did you decide to come back?”

He sees her make a face like he is an idiot out of the corner of his eye. “For Jin.”

“But you have a daughter now. The only proof you had that Jin is alive was a wedding ring I showed you. Yes, you’ve seen more now that we are back but before…” He glances at her this time. “You chose Jin over your daughter.”

She glares at him. “I did not choose Jin over Ji Yeon. I chose to find Jin and bring him home.”

“And what makes you think you’ll be able to do that?” 

Sun frowns. “What?”

“Well, the island didn’t let Jin leave before, what makes you think it will let you both leave again?”

Sun’s frown deepens. “Because I won’t give it a choice.”

Ben smiles. He thinks he likes Sun as she has become. She reminds him of himself.

They walk side by side in silence for about thirty minutes. Ben watches John beside Richard near the front of the party. He hears small snippets of chatter among the others, excitement and wonder and no suspicion of John in the slightest. Was it always like this with his people, such blind obedience? Can none of them see how John has changed? How he is dangerous?

“Why did you come back?”

Ben glances at Sun then looks back at the beach ahead of them. “I’m sorry?”

“You came back even though John is the leader now, even though you lost your daughter.” Ben watches the sand and says nothing. Sun presses on. “What was here for you to come back to?”

Ben watches the people ahead of him walking. He watches John say something to Richard. He watches the wind in the trees and the waves over the sand. He thinks of Harold in New York in his townhouse, in Central Park, seated at a café, sitting beside him on a couch smiling and laughing.

“I am not sure, Sun,” Ben responds.

After another hour of walking, they reach the former camp of flight Oceanic 415. Shelter frames and common areas still remain somewhat distinct, though most have rotted or fallen down in some manner. Ben wonders how many rouge plane survivors could still be traversing the island somewhere.

Ben sits in the sand near the water as their group stops for a rest. The sun shines brightly so the sand beneath him feels hot. 

“Everything all right?”

Ben glances at John’s legs standing beside him. “I was enjoying some alone time.”

John sits down beside him. “You see what’s behind you?”

Ben frowns then looks back behind him to see a bent metal door with the word ‘quarantine’ still readable on the front. “It’s a door.” Ben turns back around. “How ‘bout that.”

“Not just a door, Ben, it’s the door to the hatch, where you and I first met.”

Ben just stares at him. He thinks maybe John is making fun of him.

Then John asks him about Jacob, about the time Ben took him to the shack in the woods to ‘meet Jacob’ and Ben chose to lie. Ben recalls at the time thinking his acting was above par and that only something as crazy as an invisible man would make sense on the island. Either John would believe him or not and either way Ben would stay the course. Thinking on it now, Ben wonders why he had not thought up something more plausible to feed John. Perhaps he could have claimed that Jacob’s location changed and Ben did not always know where he was? Taking John on such an elaborate journey just to avoid the embarrassing truth of Ben’s ignorance does seem rather unnecessary in hindsight. John seems to agree as Ben explains his reasons.

“So, yes, I lied,” Ben finishes. “That’s what I do.”

John makes a face then stands up. “All right then.”

Ben cannot stop himself, not now. “Why do you want me to kill Jacob, John?”

John crouches down again into Ben’s eye line without a pause. “Because despite your loyal service to this island you got cancer, you had to watch your own daughter gunned down in front of you and your reward for those sacrifices? You were banished. You did all this in the name of a man you’d never even met. So the question is, Ben, why the hell wouldn’t you want to kill Jacob?”

Then John stands up and walks away from Ben.

Ben’s stomach churns and his vision starts blurring. He cannot understand this push and pull from John. Was what Ben perceived as punishment from John perhaps a gift? Was Ben wrong about John’s motivations? Is John thanking Ben for bringing him back to the island with a chance for Ben’s own revenge? Who would Ben really be betraying when the Island and Jacob have already betrayed him? Or should Ben simply continue his blind trust as he has always done? Why does Jacob deserve life when he seems to care so little for those who serve him?

The ocean turns fuzzy and Ben starts to count backward from twenty – he breathes in and out slowly as a strange sense of nausea rises in him. As the world grows dark and he falls backward onto the sand, Ben thinks that John did not actually answer his question.

––––––––––––––––

Harold opens his eyes slowly, light blinding him momentarily before his vision coalesces into his usual blur. He reaches automatically to his left and feels his glasses on the night stand. He picks them up, puts them on and sees a hospital room. Then he remembers the ferry.

Harold huffs out a harsh breath. He has to swallow once to force back the lump in his throat. “Nathan…” He closes his eyes briefly then opens them again.

Harold shifts carefully and reaches his hand around to touch the back of his neck. He feels a bandage there. He tries to turn his head in either direction, testing the limits of his new impairment. It is worse than he expected.

“Good morning, sir.” Harold looks up at the nurse – maybe a resident – as she walks up to his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“How long have I been asleep?” Harold asks.

She purses her lips. “About twenty four hours give or take.”

Harold frowns back at her. “Is that usual?”

“Yes, with the anesthesia and the surgery itself.” She smiles again, her eyes more on the chart in her hand then on him. He decides it would be easy to manipulate her if he needs to. “I have some pamphlets for you about the recovery process and options for further surgeries.”

“And when can I get out of this bed?”

She laughs once like he is a child. “Well we need to be careful with that but we definitely want to try to walk as soon as possible. It should only be a couple days.”

Harold glances across the room and sees a wheelchair waiting by the door. So even if he does have difficulty walking there is a way out.

“We will need to test your mobility,” she continues with her eyes scanning her chart. “Your neck and back. You will likely still have some pain, lower back stiffness, and we have prescribed some medicine for you.”

“Thank you,” Harold says with his billionaire voice. “You can leave the information. I would like to rest some more.”

“Well, if you –“

“Now.”

She looks up at him properly and closes her mouth. For a moment she appears as if she might try to talk again. Instead she puts down the pamphlets on his side table. Then she turns and marches out of his room.

Harold glances at the pamphlets. One cover has the face of a smiling man on the front. It makes Harold frown. He picks one up and opens it. He scans the lines quickly: recovery time three to six days just after the operation, one to three months post operation. Harold huffs and puts the pamphlet down.

Harold stares straight ahead at the wall across from him, his body still mostly reclining on the bed. He breathes in once then sits up. His neck twinges once but strangely his lower back hurts more. Perhaps Dr. Chowdhry had a point about the lower back surgery. Harold, however, cannot afford that time or risk. Harold breathes in and out a few times as his body adjusts to this type of pain. He wonders how dulled the pain is now by medicine. Harold shifts his legs around to the side of the bed and tests his weight. He feels weak and the pain in his lower back increases with the pressure.

“You walked before the surgery, you can walk after,” Harold says to himself, as if that makes complete sense.

He holds onto the industrial plastic edge of the hospital bed and puts all his weight on his feet. His lower back screams in pain and Harold has to shut his eyes. He tries to turn his head to look at the window but the stiff, pained feeling stops him. Harold turns his torso instead, sees the sun outside and reminds himself that Nathan cannot see the sun because he is dead. Harold moves his feet carefully over the floor, keeping his hand like a crutch on the bed until he reaches the end. There is nothing to hold onto between the bed and the wheelchair by the door. Harold is eight-five percent sure he will fall on his way to the chair.

“They didn’t bring crutches too?” Harold grumbles.

Harold judges the space between the bed and wall and decides on the longer path. He shifts back to where he can reach the inside wall for support then moves around the edge of the room until he reaches the wheelchair and sits. He uses the wheel handles as he has seen in films to move toward the closet. He finds his shirt and pants inside. 

“Plain gray and white.” 

Harold thinks about how his father told him the old adage ‘the clothes make the man.' The clothes make the man into what he wants others to see. Harold thinks perhaps it is time he starts dressing like a billionaire. The more money you wear the less questions people feel able to ask; a shield to hide behind.

By the time Dr. Chowdhry comes to check on him, Harold has managed to dress himself and sits in the wheelchair waiting.

“Mr. Crane, you’re out of bed.”

“And ready to leave,” Harold says.

“Leave?” 

Harold flashes the pamphlets the woman left for him. “As I am reading, one to two days recovery under a doctor’s care is sufficient for spinal fusion surgery. It has been a day.”

“The time is determined on a patient by patient basis. I need to check you are –“

“Quite ready to leave, Dr. Chowdhry,” Harold inserts.

“We do not allow patients to leave before they can walk on their own,” Dr. Chowdhry insists.

“I was able to stand and walk to this wheelchair; that is enough.”

The doctor scoffs. “In your medical opinion?”

“In my monetary opinion,” Harold retorts.

Doctor Chowdhry clears his throat and looks down at his clipboard. “I have a suggested regimen of post-op care laid out for you, along with some referrals and I want to schedule a follow up visit in a week.”

“Let’s not lie with so much money passed between us, Dr. Chowdhry,” Harold says harshly. “You will not be seeing me again.”

Dr. Chowdhry frowns at him. “You need to continue with physical therapy or your range of motion and your walking,” he makes eyes at the wheelchair, “will not improve.”

“I did not ask for your doctor’s opinion about continued care,” Harold retorts. “I asked you to fix the immediate problem and you have. Our working relationship is over now.”

The man drops his arms in a feeble gesture. “I want to help you.”

“You want to be paid and you have been.” Harold turns the wheelchair with more finesse than he expected toward the open door. “Good day.”

Dr. Chowdhry does not try to follow him.

Back at the library – after he manages the interesting task of getting himself and a wheelchair up the stairs – Harold sits in front of the lone computer left on the table. He could go to one of his apartments, his brownstone in Brooklyn. He could rest and sleep and recuperate. He could go buy pain medication or even just lunch. Instead he thinks about Nathan. He thinks about Grace and Will and Olivia whom he chose to abandon, to protect them from the danger that is Harold. 

Harold also thinks about Ben. Does Ben know what has happened? Will Ben come for him as he has before, to ensure Harold is all right? Will Ben fall into a trap that the government might have laid for Harold? Will something happen to Ben because of Harold, because of his choices, his Machine, his foolhardy trust in a government that brushes off collateral damage in the name of secrecy? If Ben stays away on his island – if Harold is not around to be found – Ben will be safe

Harold decides he must hide from Ben too.

––––––––––––––––

“Time to wake up, Ben.”

Ben’s eyes snap open at the sound of John’s voice. He blinks twice then sits up with John crouched beside him. “John?”

“You passed out back at the old camp.” John makes a wry face. “Too much sun?”

Ben looks at him, faint nausea in his stomach still. He has lived on this island long enough to be able to handle the sun. He frowns but before he can ponder the oddity further John stands up.

“Time to go.”

That is when Ben sees they are camped out at the base of the broken statue, only a foot now. Ben stands up as John watches him. Then John turns and walks up over the rocks toward Richard and the base of the statue. Richard looks at Ben and from his expression Ben knows Richard is not happy about Ben’s presence. However, he says nothing as he shoves what looks like just another rock in the wall. Then it shifts to the side so an opening appears.

“Tell him I said ‘hello,’” Richard says as he walks by the two of them back down to the beach.

Ben follows John into the statue, just a blank stone hallway ahead of him. Ben starts to wonder whether he should turn and run, follow Richard back out to the beach, consequences be damned. If Jacob would not see him all these years then maybe there was a reason? Is it John making a huge mistake right now and dragging Ben along with him? Maybe Jacob already knows John’s plan and they are both walking to their own death?

“Will you be able to do this, Ben?” John suddenly asks him. Ben stops short as John holds out a knife to him. “I know it won’t be easy but things will change once he’s gone. I promise.”

Ben says nothing and grips the hilt of the knife, pulling it from the sheath. His daughter told him to follow Locke and Ben has always been able to act on faith. Maybe this is exactly where he is supposed to be.

They finally enter a room which reminds Ben of cave dwellings of ancient humans lit by a fire pit in the middle of the room. The ceiling opens to the sky above the fire pit so Ben sees stars. He glances around the room, sparse furnishings, and then notices a large tapestry hanging on the wall.

“Like it? I did it myself.” Ben turns around in surprise at the voice. “It takes a long time when you’re making the thread but I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?”

Ben stares at the man – just a man, not a giant or a God but someone corporeal and visible and speaking like a normal person.

“Hello, Jacob,” John says.

“You found your loophole,” Jacob replies and in a small corner of Ben’s mind an alarm bell starts to ring.

“Indeed I did. You have no idea what I’ve gone through to be here.”

“Have you met before?” Ben asks in confusion.

“In a manner of speaking.” John walks over to Ben and his voice lowers. “Do what I asked you to do.”

Ben stares up at John. John asked him to kill Jacob, even gave him good reasons why and it is not as if Ben has not killed people before. 

“Benjamin.” Ben glances at Jacob as he speaks. “Whatever he’s told you, I want you to understand one thing, you have a choice.”

Ben frowns. “What choice?”

“You can do what he asks or go, leave us to discuss our… issues.”

Something inside of Ben snaps. “Oh… so now after all this time you’ve decided to stop ignoring me?” Ben starts to slowly move toward Jacob as he speaks. “Thirty-five years I’ve lived on this island and all I heard was your name over and over. Richard would bring me your instructions, all those slips of papers, those lists. And I never questioned any. I never asked why I had to suffer, why my…” He cannot mention his father now. “Why you would let Harold be taken away!” he snaps. “I did as I was told! But when I dared to ask you see you myself, when I needed you,” Ben emphasizes, “I was told you have to wait.” He grits his teeth over the word patient. Then he turns his head sharply toward John. “But when he asked to see you? He gets marched up here as if he was Moses.” He looks at Jacob again. “So why him? Hmm? What about me?”

Jacob stares right at him. “What about you?”

Ben blinks once – he sees Jean dying in his arms in the Dharma security center, he feels his father smashing him up against a wall, he hears Juliet calling him liar, he sees John marching into their camp to steal his throne, he sees the white light pouring from the ice wheel, he hears Alex begging for her life and the sound of a gunshot, he sees Harold screaming out for him as their mother runs further away toward the end of the dock. Ben feels himself screaming and screaming.

“Well,” he says out loud. 

Ben stabs Jacob twice in the chest.

Jacob grips his arm and slides down Ben’s chest until he crouches on the floor – blood on the knife, blood on Jacob’s chest. The expression on his face looks so human. The alarm bell in the back of Ben’s head changes from a slight ring to a blaring siren. He knows with absolute certainty he just did the wrong thing.

John leans over Jacob for a moment then pushes Jacob into the fire with his foot. The knife drops from Ben’s hand and hits the floor with a clang. He stares at Jacob’s burning body in the fire in shock.

Ben just killed the man who protected this island, who gave him a purpose after his father, after Harold. Why did he just do that? Why did he blame Jacob for everything in his whole life? Jacob is not responsible for every choice he made, for every good or bad moment. Why did he just stab Jacob? Wasn’t Ben supposed to believe in destiny; wasn’t he supposed to have faith and just how many people really ever meet their God? How many people kill them?

“You can stop staring at the fire,” John says somewhere in the distance. “He’s gone. Jacob’s gone.”

Jacob is gone because of Ben.

When Ben goes back outside and Richard drags him over to a large metal box, Ben is not as surprised as he possibly should be to see John Locke’s still dead body lying in the sand.

––––––––––––––––

Harold wakes up each morning and for a few brief seconds he thinks of only the sun on the ceiling or the where his glasses might be; then follows the pain in his back, the stiffness of his neck and the flood of a flashing light and his last view of Nathan’s smiling face before Harold saw him again bloody on a gurney; Grace looking for him among the carnage and the book in her hand.

Harold does not stay at the library all the time. He does finally force himself to wheel over the streets of New York and use one of his apartments with an actual bed and kitchen. (He picked an alias he is fairly certain Ben does not know about). He never realized how inaccessible many areas of New York are to the handicapped until he has to use the wheelchair everywhere he goes. The subway alone is a nightmare and he finds less cabs stop for him now. Thus, he continues to default to the library. The only person who knew about it is dead now – he can hide from Grace and Ben. All the memories fold in around him like a painful, protective shield. Harold does not want to hide from his guilt; he wants to wallow in it.

Harold tries seeing a therapist a few days after his hospital stay and surgery. The first comparison the therapist makes to his situation is the ferry bombing.

Harold’s mouth pinches and his mind supplies the words ‘collateral damage.’ “Does survivor’s guilt pass when everything that has happen actually is in fact your fault?” He asks.

She gives him a pitying look which tells him he will not return to see her again. “You can’t blame yourself for the accident that put you in that chair.” She smiles in what she must assume is a reassuring way. “It’s not your fault.”

Harold stares back at her and his expression turns cold. “Yes, it is.”

It has been one week since the ferry bombing, one week since Harold lost Nathan, hid from Grace and Will and Olivia and even Ben, though he may not know that yet. One week has passed since Harold’s entire life, even his own body, warped and changed, flipped over into a sea of uncertainty and pain. Harold needs to do something. He could sit here in the dark, hiding and alone and useless. Or…

“What would Ben do?” Harold whispers to the dim lights around him and the books piled haphazardly in the halls of this forgotten library.

Harold does not think Ben a bad person, he knows Ben is ultimately good and caring and his dear brother, but Harold also knows that Ben has done bad things. Tragedy pushes people into places they may not want to go. Harold did not quite understand that side of Ben before. He empathized, he wanted to understand. He understood the loss of their mother, her withering mind. He did not understand Ben and their father, their father’s anger or abuse, not like Ben did. He did not understand the island or Ben’s belief in destiny. He did not understand the loss of a child. He did not understand before the lengths Ben was forced into to keep himself alive and happy and maybe even sane with so many hardships heaped on his plate.

Harold believes now he understands at least a glimmer of Ben’s world.

Harold hacks into the AT&T headquarters and sifts through thousands of user profiles until he finds Nathan’s.

“I told you cellphones were one of our greatest assets in building the Machine, didn’t I, Nathan?” Harold says to the air as he works. “Perfect for stalking if you know the way in.”

Harold searches though Nathan’s call history. He sees a number of calls to a number with no registered name which Harold recognizes as his own cell phone lost at the pier. He bypasses Olivia’s name, Will’s name, a few others Harold recognizes at IFT executives. It has been months since they turned the Machine over so Nathan’s connection with their government contacts was likely severed. However, it did exist.

“Alicia Corwin,” Harold breathes out as he sees a number registered to a ‘restricted’ name.

He cues up that number and hacks past the security profile to be sure. The phone number is an Alexandria area code and most calls originated from the Washington D.C. area. Most of the calls to and from that cell number are similarly restricted. He traces the phone bill payments to a government bank account.

Harold smiles. “Hello, Alicia.” 

He accesses the admin level and logs into the device profile. He activates the ‘locate my phone’ function within the GPS data. He smiles again and if Harold could have seen his face he would have called the expression cruel.

“Let’s see how many of you killed my friend,” Harold growls.

––––––––––––––––

Ben stands knee deep in a hole in the sand digging with a thick, sharpened bamboo stalk. To his left, lie a number of shallow graves marked by wooden crosses. Miles came by an hour or so ago to offer Ben food and to refuse Ben’s request for help. Ilana still patrols closer to the ocean with a rifle in her hand. 

They buried the real Locke, the monster attacked the temple and now Ilana knows Ben is the one who killed Jacob. So, naturally, Ben stands in the sand digging his own grave.

Of all the ways Ben has nearly died in his life, somehow this one seems the most ignoble. The ‘dig your own grave’ concept always seemed like such a useless exercise to Ben. Why would one even start digging when they know they will die at the end of the task? As Ben digs now the answer is completely obvious: to buy time.

He pauses and glances over his shoulder at Ilana pacing back and forth. He wonders if it would change anything should he tell her that she would be killing his innocent twin in killing him. More than likely she would not believe him in any sense or would disparage Harold’s character as ‘just as bad’ as Ben’s. 

Perhaps Ilana would have a point, not about Harold of course, but about Ben. Ben allowed himself to be manipulated into murdering Jacob. Ben was angry, angry at John taking his place, at his own failure to save Alex; he was angry about his whole damn life. Looking back, Ben realizes what an easy mark he was. Manipulating someone else’s anger toward what you want is a perfect ploy and Ben stepped right into the trap. He stabbed to death the man who gave him a chance to be something more than an abandoned, unwanted son of a drunk, only Ben didn’t see it like that then. Hindsight can be particularly cruel.

“Hello, Ben.”

Ben looks up to see the visage of John Locke standing on the edge of the jungle. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting, what are you going?”

Ben looks back up at him sharply. “I’m digging my own grave!”

“Why?”

Ben grimaces. “Because you talked me into killing Jacob. Do you see that women over there eating a mango?” He looks at John again. “She’s his body guard and she knows what I did. So now you’ve got what you wanted because she’s going to kill me.”

John starts to tell him that isn’t that case, that he came back for Ben, that he is gathering people to leave. Ben cannot understand how he even listened to his man before. How he could ever have thought the creature talking to him now was actually John Locke?

“Someone’s going to need to be in charge of the island,” John finishes.

“Me?” Ben says with almost a scoff.

“I can’t think of a better man for the job.”

Ben reminds his ambition stirring that his man is a liar, just like Ben is. “Well, it doesn’t seem very likely under the circumstances, how am I going to get away from –“

Suddenly the metal cuff attached to Ilana’s makeshift wire rope which had been trapping Ben in his self-dug grave unlatches from his ankle. Ben stares at John.

John smiles at him. “Come to the other island, Hydra Station, that’s where we’ll be.”

“She’ll come after me,” Ben replies quietly, still keeping up a pretense of digging.

“Two hundred yards inland there’s a clearing with a rifle in it. If you go now you’ll get there first and you’ll have the drop on her. But don’t hesitate, she won’t. See you soon, Ben.”

Ben glances over to where Ilana stands, several yards away guarding his digging progress. He looks back at the jungle where John no longer stands. Then he throws the bamboo aside and takes off into the jungle. He hears Ilana shout behind him as he runs. He runs straight through, trying to find this clearing John mentioned. He wonders, as he shoots a look over his shoulder, whether John is using this escape attempt as an even quicker way to bring about Ben’s demise. Then he sees the rifle leaning against a log. Ben grabs it then whirls around to point it at Ilana.

“Drop it!” She puts up her hands, her rifle still grasped in one. “Put the gun down!”

Then she drops the gun onto the jungle floor. She stares at him, her expression not overly surprised or afraid. If anything she just looks angry and tired; she looks exactly how Ben has felt for half his life. Right now, however, he feels only remorse, only pain at an act he cannot take back against a man who was not to blame. Miles told Ben, Jacob had hoped Ben would make a different choice and maybe that’s all Jacob was in the end, a guideline for one’s own choices, not a savior or a God.

“What are you waiting for?” Ilana asks him.

Ben realizes for once he wants to tell the truth. “I want to explain.”

She shakes her head. “Explain what?”

“I want to explain that I know what you’re feeling.”

She sneers at him. “You have no idea what I’m feeling.”

“I watched my daughter Alex die in front of me and it was my fault,” Ben confesses and he sees Ilana’s face shift a little. “I tried to help her but they killed her anyway, all because of my pride and my need to keep the island as mine, to keep the island safe. I chose this island instead of a life with someone who actually cared about me, all in the name of Jacob. I sacrificed everything for him!” Ben presses his lips together tightly as he feels a lump in his throat. Then he lowers his rifle, his body feeling defeated. “And he didn’t even care.”

“Yeah, I stabbed him,” Ben sees Jacob’s face as he looks at the jungle floor, feels Jacob’s blood on his hands. “I was so angry, confused. I was terrified I was about to lose the only thing I thought I had left, my power.” He looks up at Ilana. “But the thing that really mattered was already gone and the thing I could have kept, could have been happy with was left behind.” 

Ben breathes in slowly, sweaty and weak and alone and desperate to tell at least one person that he knows he was wrong this time. “I’m sorry that I killed Jacob, I am, and I do not expect you to forgive me because I can never forgive myself.”

Ilana looks away from him. “Then what do you want?”

“Just let me leave,” Ben pleads.

She looks back at him. “Where will you go?”

“To my brother, if I can get off this island.”

Her face shifts. “Your brother?”

“He is all I have left.” Ben's voice cracks. “The island doesn't want me anymore.”

“I want you.” Ilana says definitively. Then she turns and heads back toward the beach.

So Ben follows her.

––––––––––––––––

When Harold decides to put a bomb on Alicia’s car, he tells himself it is for justice. When he sits in his wheel chair listening to the ring of the payphone with the Machine at the other end, he tells himself the Machine just does not understand loss. But when Alicia tells him maybe he is right, maybe she deserves this, he reminds himself of years ago when he looked at Ben like a stranger when Ben admitted to his own act of murder.

So when he unlocks the car doors and does not activate the bomb, he decides it is an act of Mercy. 

“Alicia Corwin,” he says as he listens to her heave heavy breaths in relief. “I am sparing your life not for you but for Nathan.” Harold watches her with her hands on the steering wheel as she listens to his voice. “But now it is time for you to disappear.” His voice is deep and harsh and he sees her tense up in fear again. “It is time for you to hide because if I see you again, if _it_ sees you, then I won’t be so high minded a second time.”

Maybe Harold is not above a small measure of revenge.

––––––––––––––––

When Ben leaves his house with Richard to wait for the smoke monster to arrive while Charles hides and Miles runs, he tells himself Harold would do the same. When Locke throws Richard aside with no effort then sits beside Ben, he tells himself that he can be brave. But when Locke asks him if he knows where Locke might find Charles Widmore, Ben reminds himself of exactly why his daughter is dead.

So Ben leads Locke into Ben’s secret closet where Widmore hides. When Locke threatens Charles’ daughter in exchange for information Ben cannot help but feel satisfied.

“You tell me why you came back here and I won’t hurt your daughter.”

“I brought Desmond Hume back here because of his unique resistance to electromagnetism," Charles confesses. "He was a measure of last resort.”

“What do you mean last resort?”

Charles looks at Ben over Locke’s shoulder. “I’m not saying anymore in front of him.”

Ben stares back at him and does not leave. 

“Well then, whisper to me,” Locke says, moving closer to Charles.

Ben thinks of Alex, dirty and crying and kneeling in the grass in front of their house, looking at him after months of anger like he was really her father again. Ben picks up a hand gun from his cache on the wall and shoots Charles three times in the chest.

“He doesn’t get to save his daughter,” Ben says to Locke.

Maybe Ben is not above revenge after all.

––––––––––––––––

Harold sits in his wheelchair at the circular table in Nathan’s library. A laptop waits open in front of him but he does not type. On the other side of the table, the large glass display board Harold awkwardly dragged into the room to replace Nathan’s cork board stands empty. He had taped Alicia’s photo to it before but has since torn the picture to pieces.

Harold’s body feels stiff and awkward. It is as if his body is no longer his own. He does not recognize the pain in his back, the stiffness of his neck and limited range of motion. He does not understand his few and mostly futile attempts to walk on his own, limping and stumbling and needing the wall for support every time. This body should belong to a different man. Instead it belongs to him, a prideful man who helped a ferry pier blow up and kill his best friend.

“Nathan…” Harold whispers to himself. 

He breathes in deeply then pulls up a number of camera feeds on the laptop. When he and Nathan worked on the Machine, Harold installed cameras in several of his residences as a first step for the Machine to learn how to watch people. Harold checked them all at the start of his self imposed hermitage but the police only visited his Harold Wren address once and all he has seen since have been letters in the mailbox or under his door. His insurance job knows of his death by now and none of Harold’s aliases had many friends. Harold really has no idea what he looks for right now. Perhaps he is mourning for the life he has lost.

Suddenly a sound comes from one camera view of his Harold Wren apartment. Harold sits up straighter, oddly helping his back pain a little, and switches over all the open camera feeds to just his Wren apartment. The door knob rattles with the sound of mistakenly inserted keys scratching until finally the door flings open.

“Uncle Harold!” Will comes rushing into the apartment, his set of keys dropped somewhere near the bookcase. He stops for a moment, his shirt half unbuttoned and coat hanging low on his arms, glances around the room then moves again. 

Harold wonders why fate chose the perfect moment for him to witness this happen.

“Will, please wait.” Olivia comes through the apartment door, closing it quietly behind her.

“Uncle Harold!” Will walks to the far wall of the living room, circles around the couches once while Olivia just stands in the foyer stiff in her lawyer heels. 

“Will, he’s not here. The police told us.”

“That is bullshit!” Will shouts back at her as he disappears from one camera in the living room then reappears in the kitchen, still shouting. “It’s been more than a week, almost two, and we just find out now? I thought he was…” Will makes a gasping noise. Harold watches as Will leans his hands on the counter for a moment then stands up straight again and marches back into the living room. “He has to be here. His office says he hasn’t been in so he has to be here. He’d be out of a hospital or… or… or just… back from where ever he must have been by now, right?”

“Will.” Olivia steps closer to Will as he paces. She tries to put her hand on his arm but he shrugs it off. “Will, please, I know this is hard…”

“Hard?” Will shouts. Then he turns left and marches down the hall toward the bedroom and study. “Uncle Harold?” Will shouts again, ducking his head into the study. “Uncle Harold, please!”

“Will, you have to be rational!” Then Olivia’s voice changes to something that reminds Harold of himself in a way he wishes it didn’t. “He was on their list. His phone was found at the ferry; that is why he hasn’t been answering us. He was there too. He was with your father!”

“No…” Will turns into the bathroom then reappears on the bedroom camera view a moment later. “No, he… he has to be…” Will yanks open Harold’s closet and starts pushing aside hangers Harold cannot see from the camera’s angle. “He could have lent dad his… or, or…”

“Will!” Olivia shouts as she finally walks down the hall after him. “Please, stop.”

“He has to be…”

Finally Olivia grabs Will’s hand and pulls him away from the closet. “Will, look at me.” He stops moving and Harold sees the expression on his face flat line. “Harold is not here. Harold is dead.” Will visibly tenses up. “No, I’m sorry, Will, but we have to accept it. Harold is dead too. They were both there; they were both at the ferry.”

“But they… they didn’t find…”

“They didn’t find a lot of people in the water,” Olivia says softer. “But that doesn’t make it less true.”

Harold puts a hand over his eyes and has to breathe in and out twice before he can look at the video feeds from his apartment again. When he opens his eyes, Will cries stiffly in his mother’s arms.

“I just… I just thought… if we lost dad then at least…”

“I know, Will,” Olivia says, her hand moving in a circle over Will’s shoulders. “I know.”

Harold just barely sees a tear streak leading down from Olivia’s eye as well. He shuts off the video feeds from the apartment. Harold feels selfishly grateful he never put up cameras in Grace’s house. He does not think he could bear to see her grief right now.

Harold has lost Nathan. He exiled himself from Will and Olivia. He let Grace believe he died. He has murdered Harold Wren and Harold Martin. He has even hidden from when Ben comes looking for him. 

“And he will,” Harold says to himself. He clicks into the camera views of his Harold Finch townhouse, likely the first place Ben will look. “He will come eventually,” Harold says again. Harold is not sure he will be able to keep Ben away but he has to try. 

Now, all he has left is himself.

“And this library,” Harold says out loud grimly. 

He still has his money, still has some property. Harold glances at the corkboard with Nathan’s people, with their numbers, leaning against the wall. Nathan wanted to save them and Harold chose not to care. His disregard for actual names and faces caused him to miss the warning, miss the actual intelligence that Nathan could die. When Harold broached the idea to his one-time therapist she advised against ‘doing something radical.’

“But what does she know.”

Harold frowns then looks at his laptop again. Nathan said he thought the Machine wanted him to create the contingency and help those people who could die any day, just like Nathan did.

“Well, then,” Harold says to the screen – to the Machine – which he knows will not answer him, “I won’t repeat that mistake again.”

Perhaps it is his duty, perhaps it is a true sense of altruism, perhaps it is atonement, but it is what he has now. Harold decides to help them, those people, those ‘irrelevant’ numbers; because everyone is relevant to someone. Nathan told him that and the Machine proved that when it gave them Ben’s number for Harold to save. No one else undeserving will die because of his mistakes.

––––––––––––––––

John Locke – the smoke, the monster – wants to destroy the island; not figuratively, not symbolically, literally he wants to sink the island into the sea. Jack Sheppard – the man who chose to step into Jacob’s shoes – wants to save it. Benjamin Linus – nothing special, just another man – wants to know what his destiny really is.

Ben remembers when he first came to this island, with Harold, with a family. He and Harold sat on the end of the dock, feet swinging and the lagoon quiet in front of them. He remembers one of them asking why they were here, on this island where the stars were wrong and the jungle mysterious. One of them said something about fate. Ben took that word ‘fate’ and he changed it into destiny. When Harold was torn away and Ben left with the sour deal, Ben chose to believe destiny had a plan in store. The island was special then Ben had to be too. He had to have been left on this island for a better reason or else losing his brother, his twin, half of his soul was too terrible to bear.

Ben told John Locke once, the real John, that destiny is a fickle bitch. Ben was not wrong. Destiny does not necessarily mean something good. Ben has lived through an abundance of pain, of loss and suffering and loneliness. If his destiny was only pain, could he not have refused it and said yes to Harold when he asked, ‘come with me?’ His destiny has to have been something more.

Ben thought his destiny was to become one of ‘the others,’ as the plane survivors called them. He thought his destiny was to lead. But if that was true then how did he end up here, no position, no direction, only a question of what the island wants from him now? Maybe his destiny was Alex, to raise her in a real home instead of with a mad French woman, and, because he failed, no destiny waits any longer? Or has he already fulfilled his destiny? Was his short twelve years as leader on the island all he was meant to do? 

Maybe his destiny is only to be here, at exactly the right time, to ensure that the monster’s plan does not succeed and the island lives on.

So when Ben, Sawyer, Hugo and Kate follow Jack and John to the cliffs from the heart of the island, Ben believes something more still remains to him to do. When Jack tells them Locke is dead – again or for the first time – but the island still needs to be saved, Ben chooses to believe destiny remains.

He says to Jack, “I’m not letting this island go down.”

Jack simply nods at him, the two of them for once on the same side.

“Time to go, Hurley,” Jack says to Hugo as Sawyer and Kate wait to make their way down the cliff to Charles’ abandoned sailboat and the plane on Hydra Island.

“Nah,” Hugo says. “You think I’m going down that?” He gestures to the ladder leading down the sheer cliff face. “I’m with you, dude.”

Ben remembers when he first met Jack face to face; Jack his prisoner and Ben with time running out. He told Jack about how he had cancer and three days later Jack, a spinal surgeon, fell from the sky. If that did not confirm the existence of God, then what could?

Looking back, Ben is unsure how many of his words were an act and how many were true. Faith is a strange thing. Ben had faith in the island and in Jacob right up until the moment he lost that faith and stabbed Jacob in the chest. Is faith the same as destiny? Can one have faith in destiny? Is that what has guided Ben all along, faith that his choices, his path, align with his destiny?

Jack was a man of science right up until the moment he wasn’t. And now… now Jack has more faith than John Locke did, more faith then Ben, faith that the island is his destiny and that the island deserves to survive. Oddly, Jack gives Ben hope. If faith can change then maybe so can destiny.

Jack stands in front of Hugo now, tells him that Hugo must become the protector because Jack’s role is to die. Ben marvels at the power of the island to change people, to bring out the best they did know they ever had.

“It’s was supposed to be you,” Hugo says.

“It was only supposed to be me so I could do this,” Jack retorts. “If the island needs protecting it had to be you, Hurley.” Ben knows Jack is right. One of them is a healer, one is a martyr and it is easily discerned which is which. “I believe in you,” Jack says emphatically.

Hugo stares at Jack for a moment then finally nods.

“Do you have something to drink out of?” Jack asks.

“I do,” Ben says suddenly. He walks back over to his pack and pulls out a battered, plastic water bottle. “Will this work?”

“Yeah.” Jack crouches down and lets water from the creek leading into the heart flow into the bottle. He hands it to Hugo who drinks it all down quickly.

Hugo pulls the bottle down from his face and looks at Jack expectantly. “Is that it?”

“Now you’re like me,” Jack says, then he turns and walks down the creek toward the cave to fulfill his own destiny inside the heart of the island.

Maybe Ben had it wrong all along, he is not a leader or a savior, he is just a witness and he was the one who really needed the island all this time.

When the rumbling from the earth underneath them quiets, Ben and Hugo pull the rope they lowered into the heart of the island up again. They find Desmond on the other end, unconscious but alive. Ben wonders how in the world such a strange destiny fell on one like Desmond Hume.

“Jack’s gone, isn’t he?” Hugo asks Ben.

Ben nods. “He did his job, Hugo.”

“It’s my job now. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Ben crouches down beside where Hugo sits. “I think you do what you do best,” Ben says, “take care of people.” He gestures to where Desmond lies. “You can start by helping Desmond get home.”

“But how? People can’t leave the island.”

“That’s how Jacob ran things, maybe there’s another way, a better way.”

Ben wonders why Jacob did not just pick Hugo outright from all the many he led to this island. Perhaps it is the benefit of timing or hindsight but Ben cannot see any other option for a person fit to protect this island.

“Will you help me?”

Ben blinks and refocuses on Hugo. “I’m sorry?”

“I could really use someone with like experience for a little while. Will you help me, Ben?”

Perhaps belief and faith and duty can be rewarded just not how we expect it. When Hugo asks ‘will you help me,’ Ben realizes this is what he has always wanted, what he was meant to do. For once, this feels like the perfect role, what he has always needed.

He replies, “I’d be honored.”

Hugo smiles. “Cool.”

Once the plane is away – just before Harold finds a dosage of pain medication enough to blot out the evidence for Ben to be unaware – Ben realizes the ache in his back and neck, which have followed him since he returned to the island, do not belong to him but to Harold.


	12. Follow Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He thinks it would come out wrong to tell Hugo he is perfect; perfect for the island and maybe even perfect for Ben, for someone he can trust and follow._
> 
> _It takes Harold little time to decide he cannot save the numbers on his own... He needs an employee, a partner._
> 
> [Ben adjusts to his new role on the island while Harold's life becomes more dangerous as he tries to save the numbers.]

Ben sits beside Desmond, still unconscious, in the sand. He watches the gentle bob of the sailboat he and Hugo retrieved from Hydra Island after Kate and Sawyer’s retreat. Ben thinks the boat looks similar to the one Desmond took on his sail around the world which landed him on this island in the first place.

“A circular journey, perhaps,” Ben says to himself.

Ben glances down at Desmond, quiet and still and some kind of peaceful. Desmond tried so hard to get away from the island and ended up back here anyway. Ben isn’t sure anymore if he would blame destiny; would Jacob working through Charles count as destiny? Is destiny anything more than other people steering one’s path without their knowledge? If that is the case then who pulled all the strings at each turn to lead Ben right here?

“Should we wake him up?” Ben looks up at Hugo standing above him. “It’s been like four hours now.”

Ben purses his lips. “He was just subjected to a great deal of electromagnetism from the heart of the island.”

Hugo frowns back at Ben. “Yeah?”

“So maybe we should let him rest.”

Hugo smiles. “Cool.”

Hugo glances at the sand for a moment as if he might sit down beside Ben then he looks out at the ocean in front of them instead. Ben’s eyes shift with Hugo’s out toward the sea. The sun shines on the gentle waves, flickering and changing with the water’s movement. Ben thinks the ocean looks far more peaceful than he ever remembers from his years of life on this island. Ben cannot say if the feeling comes from the island moving to a new spot in the water or from within himself. Is he finally at peace with his place on the island, advisor to the island’s new protector?

“How is Desmond going to sail home?”

Ben looks up at Hugo again. “What?”

“I mean, we crashed here on a plane and didn’t Jacob tell that Widmore dude how to get here? Not like we know really where the island is now, right? So how is Desmond going to know how to sail away again?” Hugo stares at the boat. “Can’t have him just going around in circles.”

“Well, Hugo,” Ben says, “you are, in a sense, the new Jacob.”

Hugo looks down at him with a frown. “So, what, I’m supposed to know?”

Ben shrugs one shoulder. “Jacob was never exactly forthcoming with his methods but, yes, I think you will know.”

“Just…” Hugo makes a face, “know?”

“Just know.” Ben smiles. “He led all of you here in the first place. If that was just one thing he could do as protector of the island, imagine what you may become capable of, Hugo.”

“Dude, you’re getting kind of mystical on me.”

Ben chuckles. “Maybe. I think…” Ben looks at the water, the boat, the sand of the beach and he feels… he feels happy, he feels at home and not in the same way he used to. “I think we can figure it out together, Hugo.”

“Oh god…” Ben and Hugo turn their heads to Desmond as he groans and raises a hand to his head, sitting up slowly. He breathes in deeply then opens his eyes with a squint against the sun. “I’m… I’m alive?”

“Yeah, man,” Hugo says, “Jack…” Hugo stops for a moment then clears his throat. “Jack saved you.”

“Saved me…” Desmond repeats.

“It’s a bit of a story,” Ben says. Desmond turns his head as if he just noticed Ben sitting beside him. “But, the point being, we are going to find a way home for you.”

“Home?” Desmond asks. 

“Yeah, the plane already left.” Hugo turns toward the ocean, staring out at the water with a strange expression on his face

“I saw…” Desmond starts then frowns as he gazes at nothing in front of him. “I saw something and I thought I was…” He turns to look at Ben. “I thought I would wake up there.”

“You still can Desmond. You’re not being forced to stay on the island anymore.”

“And why are you here?” Desmond stares at Ben. “When I last saw you… you had…” He makes a face like a confused smile. “Funny enough having one of you in the world.”

Ben chuckles and oddly does not feel threated by Desmond’s knowledge. “Harold is not me.”

“Hey, Ben?” Ben and Desmond glance up at Hugo. Hugo smiles at Ben, looks out at the ocean again for a long moment then looks back to Ben. “I think I know. I don’t… I don’t know how but, I think I know the way for Desmond to go.”

Ben smiles but is not sure what to say. He thinks it would come out wrong to tell Hugo he is perfect; perfect for the island and maybe even perfect for Ben, for someone he can trust and follow. Now feels like a new phase, crossing a new bridge in his life. For once Ben knows he is in the right place at the right time on the right side.

––––––––––––––––

It takes Harold little time to decide he cannot save the numbers on his own. Nathan tried the solo route and his results came up five to seven. Harold dislikes that count. He must be better.

“Especially when one is confined to a wheelchair.”

He refines the contingency function; adds more security, payphones, a clever application of the Dewey Decimal system but Harold is still not a fighter. He needs an employee, a partner.

Harold reviews possible candidates with a certain skill set: police or military training, weapon proficiency but also some regard for law; ability to work solo but also respect authority. The most quality candidates are almost certainly already employed and would likely turn him into the authorities as a vigilante.

“So some sort of fall is required.”

If they – whomever it may be – are going to agree to work for Harold then they will need to be willing to work for what is right but not legal. A fall from grace or a dismissal or even past indiscretions would apply. If they had always been on the up and up they won’t need Harold’s offer. He considers former CIA or FBI or other clandestine operatives. If they are already used to working in dubious secrecy Harold’s proposition will be no change.

He cold calls possible choices.

“You don’t know me but I know you, Ms. Martinez; one tour in Iraq and another in the foreigner service but a misstep with local authorities lost you your position.”

“Who are you?” She rasps.

“I’m someone who wants to offer you a job, something worthwhile, something that pays.”

“I’ve learned not to trust voices on the phone with offers too convenient to be true.”

“Ms. Martinez –” she hangs up on him.

Harold tries veterans, retired police.

“Mr. Roberts, you left the force in Boston because you chose the easy road in your investigations, often relying on less evidence then you should have.”

“How can you –”

“I want to give you a chance to make up for that."

"Oh really?"

"To do something right, Mr. Roberts.”

“Fuck you.”

Harold tries to think like them, why would someone say yes to his offer? How many people out there with the skills he needs will really rise to the ‘do what is right’ calling?

He hacks government sites, reads personal files, wonders if he should try to recruit from within as well, not just pick up the disgraced or dismissed.

_Sarah Parker: Clandestine operations in China._  
_Matthew Ford: Former military, police lieutenant_  
_Paul Thompson: CIA code breaker, one Afghanistan tour_  
_John Reese: Former military, current CIA operative_

(Harold stares at the face of John Reese and feels a sense of déjà vu he cannot place; something long ago but also not yet happened, something about fire light maybe…)

Harold sits up too long, too late in the night. He cannot pause when numbers he fails to save continue to arrive each day. He reads about their deaths days later in the newspaper – a phone call to warn them never works. He needs someone to help him, he cannot afford to waste time and if no one will help him due to altruism then perhaps avarice will suffice.

“Rick Dillinger.”

The man smiles at him across the table, an expression full of charm and only disarming to those who believe it is true. “You said on the phone you had a job offer for me? So?”

“I want to offer you the opportunity to help people, people in danger.”

Mr. Dillinger raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of his beer. “I’m not a charity worker.”

Harold represses the urge to sigh. “Of course not, Mr. Dillinger, I can pay you a more than ample salary. However, our work would not be strictly legal.”

Mr. Dillinger only smiles. “Hasn’t stopped me before.”

“As I am aware, however our goal would be a good despite its lack of legality. I have information about threats to lives, murder, Mr. Dillinger, which we will work to prevent.”

“You want me to help you stop murders before they happen? How exactly do you know who’s going to be murdered?”

“That’s my business,” Harold replies tersely. “I need you to be my man in the field.”

“All right.” After a pause, Mr. Dillinger nods. “How about you show me how far those dollar signs go and I’ll tell you if I’m your man.”

Harold writes a sum on a piece of paper then slides it across the table to Mr. Dillinger. Mr. Dillinger slides the paper closer to himself with one finger. He grins then picks up the paper, folds it in half and puts it into his jacket pocket.

“And what should I call you, boss?”

“You can call me, Mr. Finch.”

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Hugo go on a ‘new protector’ tour of the island. They follow the beach, staying to the sand and mark the size of the island by footsteps through silent hours. They find Rose and Bernard’s cabin along the way – tall and solid with bamboo and palm fronds and one familiar golden retriever.

“Like we told the others, we don’t get involved. And that includes the two of you.” Rose cuts Ben a look. “Especially you.”

Ben purses his lips. “Fair enough.” 

“We could do without more earthquakes and travels through time if you don’t mind,” Bernard adds.

Hugo smiles. “Sure, we won’t bother you.” Then Hugo’s expression changes into one similar to when he looked out at the ocean and pointed Desmond the way home. “It'll be good now. Plus, I think the island likes you two.”

Ben feels himself smiling.

As they leave Ben turns back. “Bernard… Rose…” Ben blows out a breath. “I apologize, for what I did to you both before.”

Rose stares at him for a long moment then just nods which Ben thinks is probably the best he could expect. (Somehow it feels like more forgiveness then he deserves).

They move across the island, cross jungle that breathes and expands around them. Where Hugo walks in front of Ben the vines seem to curl back, as if the plants know who he is, as if the life of the island moves how Hugo wants it without either of them realizing. Ben could be imagining it or perhaps Richard never told him the half of it.

“There aren’t many Others left,” Hugo says. “That Widmore guy killed a lot of them.”

“So did Locke,” Ben says. 

“He wasn’t really Locke.” Hugo frowns. “I wonder if he had a name.”

Ben chuckles because only Hugo would wonder something so simple about a person, a creature, with so many more mysteries than just a name.

“The Others are at the temple,” Hugo says. Ben looks up at him. Hugo nods to himself, his eyes faraway. “Yeah, they wouldn’t go back to the barracks. It’s the temple.” He looks down at Ben. “We should go see them, shouldn’t we?”

“I am sure they would like to meet the new protector.” Hugo nods. “And Hugo?” 

Hugo frowns. “Yeah?” 

“They’re not the ‘Others’ anymore; they are _your_ people.”

At the temple they find about two dozen people – Ben sees the flight attendant Cindy from Hugo’s plane – working to repair the damage the monster wrought when he attacked. They all stop working, however, when they see the two of them approach. Ben feels remnants from his past, how much he craved to be strong and in charge, to lead and be unquestioned, and how easily he lost that role, how quickly he fell to the background. 

“Hello,” Ben calls out as they walk through the entrance, the assembled group all staring. “I’m sure you are all wondering what has been going on but there is nothing to fear now. John Locke, the monster, is gone, as is Jacob.” Murmurs spread through the group, surprise and distrust. “But we have a new protector of the island, to keep it and us safe.” He turns his head toward Hugo.

Hugo smiles and waves one hand. “Hi.”

Zach, who has grown so tall since they took him from the tail survivor’s camp years ago, waves back at Hugo. “Hi!” 

The others standing around Zach appear less convinced about Hugo. To be fair, the rest of them never did end up meeting or even seeing Jacob despite Locke’s promises. For all they know, Jacob was just as god-like and incorporeal as he was always whispered to be. 

“I know things have been kind of crazy around here,” Hugo says. “What with Locke and explosions and everything but I think that’s all over now.” Hugo clears his throat, glances at Ben once. Ben nods encouragingly. Hugo turns back to the assembled few. “I am your new protector and I’ll be honest, I’m not sure what that is all going to mean for me yet. Ben is going to be my advisor.” He gestures to Ben beside him. Ben smiles once but says nothing. “I know I’ve got a lot to learn but I promise that I will be here and I’ll do the best I can.”

“How… how did you become the protector?” One woman asks. “I saw you, here at the temple before. You’re… you’re just a man.”

Hugo shrugs once and Ben can see he wants to say something like ‘I don’t know’ or ‘dude, right?’ Then he pauses and pulls himself up taller. “I was a candidate of Jacob’s. I drank the water and now I am like him.”

The mood among the people changes, like a small wave brushing them back, refreshing and their expressions shift to interested and enchanted and hopeful.

“I can’t promise I’ll be perfect. I don’t know everything yet but I’m going to be different. I’m not Jacob. I haven’t lived hundreds of years.” He laughs once. “But for now you’re free to do what you want. You can live here at the temple, out in the jungle, whatever.” He waves a hand behind himself. “You can even leave. If you want to go back to where you came from, then rad. I’ll tell you how to get home; I’ll find you a way. No one has to do anything they don’t want to anymore, okay?”

As Ben watches Hugo, he feels his own sense of awe. If someone had asked him the day the plane crashed on this island to choose which person would replace Jacob, Hugo would never have been his choice. Hugo probably would not have chosen himself either. What is it that people say, it is always what you least expect?

“So…” Hugo shuffles his feet once, grasping for an ending then he clears his throat. “If I need you then I’ll come find you, all right?”

A few people nod, Zach claps his hands a few times while his sister Emma laughs once. It feels uncertain but also new in a way Ben finds comforting. He stands a few feet back, watching the people as they say a few words to Hugo or shake his hand, say thank you and words of congratulations. Ben wonders if Richard felt this way, not a leader but also not part of the whole, someone apart, a bridge between the two.

When they finally make their way toward the peak of the island on their tour, Ben stops at the radio tower. He knows the method is crude, not as helpful as a The Flame or The Looking Glass, but he needs something. Ben changes the radio signal into a message, one just for Harold. Harold has his Machine after all; hopefully he can pick up Ben’s call.

_Linus on the island calling Finch in NY. Please reply. Are you all right?_

Ben does not feel it any longer but he remembers a pain, something he did not focus on with the surprise of Locke alive and the whirl wind weeks of the battle for dominion over the island. His neck and back ached in a way that reminded him of cancer but felt entirely not his own. Something might be wrong with Harold.

––––––––––––––––

“Good morning, Mr. Dillinger, we have a number,” Harold says as Mr. Dillinger walks leisurely down the hall toward Harold at his computer terminal.

“Are we calling people 'numbers?'” Dillinger counters with a surprised look.

“Social security numbers,” Harold clarifies.

“Right.” Mr. Dillinger takes a sip of the Starbucks coffee in his one hand and gestures with what looks like a matching cup in the other hand to the room around them. “Library for a hideout? Not a bad idea, Mr. Finch.”

Harold smiles briefly. “It serves. Now,” he picks up the printed photo of their number, “Alison Parker. She is a teller at a Bank of America branch in the Bronx.”

“Great,” Mr. Dillinger mutters as he takes another sip of his coffee, “she embezzling or sleeping with the manager?”

Harold clicks his teeth together and fixes Mr. Dillinger with a look. “Neither as far as I have determined.” Harold puts the photo down on the table then looks back at his computer screen. “We need to look into her further.”

“Shadowing?” He chuckles once. “Seems a bit tame for hiring someone like me.”

“This is our first number together, Mr. Dillinger,” Harold says tersely. “Perhaps ‘tame’ is a good place to start.”

“Right. I’ll head out to her bank and see if I can spot anything.” Mr. Dillinger puts the second Starbucks cup in his hand down on the table next to Harold’s keyboard. “Coffee for you.” He grins. “Need to impress the boss, right?”

“As you say, but –”

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Dillinger interrupts, “I didn’t add sugar or cream yet, figured you could handle the fixings.” He glances around. “We have that in our set up?” Then he shakes his head and turns around again back toward the door. “I’ll go take a look at Alison now. Later.”

Harold stares at Mr. Dillinger’s back until he disappears around the corner. He glances down at the coffee cup with a frown. He picks up the cup, wheels over to the wall and drops the cup – liquid and all – into the wastebasket.

Harold works on following Ms. Parker’s digital footprint while Mr. Dillinger stakes out the bank. Harold finds little of interest in her personal life, no dangerous ex–boyfriends or family strife. Mr. Dillinger treats Harold to tid-bits of information about the bank’s layout, fellow tellers with Ms. Parker and possibly suspicious bank patrons.

“Are you sure this girl is in danger, Finch?” Mr. Dillinger asks. “Looks to me like she’s more in danger of quitting out of boredom than anything else here.”

Harold frowns at the change in formality of his name but decides to skip over that. “Just because we haven’t seen the danger yet does not mean it is not there, Mr. Dillinger,” Harold says over their phone line.

“Because you just know?”

Harold stares at Alison’s picture. “I do.”

“Let me guess, you’re former NSA? Or maybe injured in the line of duty, Finch?” Mr. Dillinger laughs. “Doubt that, don’t peg you for a former cop or military.”

Harold frowns as he hacks the bank’s computer network. “I’m a very private person, Mr. Dillinger. Let’s focus on the task at hand.”

“Yes, sir.”

It is not until an hour after the bank closes – Ms. Parker counting her drawer twice, answering e-mails and obviously waiting for the bank to empty – that they finally learn the reason they received Alison Parker’s number.

“She’s on the phone,” Mr. Dillinger says suddenly. “Upset about something. I can’t hear her without giving myself away.”

“Are you close enough to blue jack her phone?”

“What?”

“It’s a program on your phone. It allows you to clone a person’s cellphone so you can access their calls.”

There is a long pause. Harold switches through camera angles in the bank. He sees Ms. Parker on the phone, hunched over slightly, but Harold does not see Mr. Dillinger. Before Harold can ask Mr. Dillinger where he disappeared to, however, Harold suddenly sees him walk through the path of one video camera, pushing a janitor’s cart. Harold purses his lips, though the method is a bit risky it is also not completely idiotic. Then the phones link up and Harold hears the conversation of Ms. Parker.

“ – and it’s not the only account I’ve seen this happen to.”

“Just how many accounts have you seen duplicated like this?”

“I don’t know, half a hundred? I’m sure there is more. Most of the clients never even report it but this is fraud. I don’t know if it’s Mr. Thompson or if it is just our branch but…”

“Thank you for letting us know, Ms. Parker; we can move on from here.”

“Wait, I haven’t –” Then the other line cuts off.

“Embezzling after all, Finch?” Mr. Dillinger’s voice adds.

“Or something like,” Harold says. He watches Ms. Parker slowly hang up the phone before she abruptly stands up and marches out of her office. “Follow her, Mr. Dillinger.”

Three hours later, Mr. Dillinger breaks down the door of Alison Parker’s apartment in order to drag the regional account manager, whom Ms. Parker called to report the account frauds, off of Ms. Parker before he chokes her to death.

“Mr. Dillinger, please, be careful to –”

“Look out!” Ms. Parker screeches.

Harold hears what sounds like breaking glass, a few thumps that are likely bodies hitting walls then another scream from Ms. Parker.

“Mr. Dillinger?”

“Yeah, Finch?” Mr. Dillinger says with a grunt in the middle.

“What is happening?”

Harold tries to locate Ms. Parker’s Wi-Fi among the others in the building and see if her computer and webcam are activated. He needs to see what is going on in the apartment.

“Just a difference of opinion, Finch,” Mr. Dillinger says followed by another loud crash and a laugh. Then everything turns silent for a moment. “All clear, Finch.”

“Who are you?” Ms. Parker gasps.

“Batman,” Mr. Dillinger dead pans and Harold rolls his eyes.

 

“And I return with a tip!” Mr. Dillinger flashes a fifty dollar bill at Harold as he walks back into the library, grabs the back of a chair near the wall and slides it over to Harold’s desk. “Drop in the bucket to what you’re paying me, yeah.” Mr. Dillinger sits down in the chair with one ankle crossed over his knee. “But it could make for a nice night at the bar.”

Harold frowns at him. “I hardly think it appropriate to be taking money from the people we are trying to help, especially as our methods are clandestine.”

Mr. Dillinger scoffs. “What, I should just tell her 'no, sorry, keep your fifty?'”

“Yes,” Harold insists.

Mr. Dillinger shrugs then puts the bill back in his jacket pocket. “Too late now and I doubt you want me to run back out and find her to give it back.”

Harold's lips pinch but he does not respond. Mr. Dillinger grins at him then reaches out and claps Harold on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Finchy, we saved the day!”

Harold frowns. “I would prefer you not call me that.”

Mr. Dillinger laughs once. “Whatever you say.” He leans his chair back on two legs for a moment, glances at Harold’s computer then clops the feet of the wooden chair back on the floor. “Well, since our girl is saved and I have a fifty I apparently shouldn’t have, I’m going to head and out and see how I can get rid of this.” Rick pats his jacket pocket then jumps up from the chair.

Harold watches as Mr. Dillinger strides away down the hall, something of a spring to his step. Harold frowns until Mr. Dillinger turns the corner out of sight. This is not going to end well.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Hugo work on a way forward for how they will live on the island now. Hugo decided he did not want to stay at the temple with their people.

“Not sure I’m ready to go full jungle God yet.”

“We could resurrect your first beach camp?”

Hugo gives him a look. “Dude.”

Ben laughs and suggests the Dharma barracks. He has lived there in so many different ways – captive, captain and now perhaps counselor. Ben considers mentioning the broken statue but if the temple puts Hugo on edge right now then the statue will only be worse. Despite what Locke said, the island has not destroyed the houses and they provide a better level of comfort than the beach.

“I'm not sure if the water runs anymore or the electricity,” Ben says. "We will have to inspect the Dharma infrastructure."

Hugo shrugs. “Whatever. I dig the actual walls. The beach wasn’t always so great to sleep on or the caves. Guess we will need to clean the houses all out though, right?”

So Ben picks up books off the floor of his old house. The house went through a number of years of disuse, not to mention a hostage situation and then short term occupation by Charles. A few shelves are broken and some books torn. 

Ben slides one book in his hand back onto the shelf. The corner catches against something wedged behind the book. Ben reaches behind the book and pulls out a frame. A water damaged photo is still inside but even with the discoloration Ben recognizes Alex’s poof of hair. He runs a hand along the metal edge of the frame, looks at Alex eyes, her smile, the volcano peak behind her. Ben wonders if maybe he should move to a different house. This one is full of Alex in every corner. Ben shakes his head at himself instantly; he does not want to forget his daughter. Even if he should move to a different house she would still be there. She was the island.

“My Alex…” Ben whispers.

“'Return of the Native?'”

Ben turns to Hugo standing in front of another bookcase, jolted back into the present. “Thomas Hardy?” Ben answers. “It’s a classic.”

Hugo makes a displeased face. “I read it in high school English. I hated it.” Hugo shoves the book back on one shelf. “Basically a soap opera and he kept talking about the heath. I mean, what is a heath?”

“It’s a type of field, mostly in Great Britain.”

Hugo raises his eyebrows. “Exactly.”

Ben huffs and props the picture back on the shelf in front of the books. He stares at the spine of a book visible just beside the frame, reads ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ and feels a sudden pang in his stomach.

“We should go to the radio tower,” Ben says.

“Huh?” Hugo turns to him. “The radio tower?”

“We should check and see if anyone has intercepted the signal.”

“You expecting something?” Hugo asks. “Cause that French chick didn’t get a reply for sixteen years.” Hugo’s expression changes to one of dawning comprehension. “Or was that you guys?”

“Not exactly.”

Hugo frowns at Ben. He looks like he wants to ask more but just shakes his head. “Sure, let’s go check it out. Would be nice to know that Kate and Sawyer and them got home okay.”

“Right…” Ben replies.

Ben glances back at the bookcase, the photo of Alex. The limitations of the radio tower do not bode well for their off island contact. If the Lamp Post were still accessible and not flooded it would be the better option for such two way conversation. Hopefully Harold’s omnipotent machine can overcome the radio tower’s limitations.

When they reach the radio tower – jokes about exercise becoming part of Hugo’s role and Ben’s change of pace at not being anyone’s captive on the way – Ben is disappointed to find the radio tower still broadcasting his own signal. Ben stands in front of the dials, Hugo in the doorway and continues to worry.

“Nothing?”

“It’s the same,” Ben says quietly.

“And we blew up the Flame.”

Ben chuckles once then looks up at Hugo. “And flooded the Looking Glass.”

Hugo’s face shifts and Ben remembers Hugo lost a friend down in those watery depths. Hugo takes a step back, his gaze shifting out over the island below the precipice of the radio tower hill. Ben walks out of the tower’s control room, shuts the door behind him and stands beside Hugo.

“You… Jacob, I guess, always kept the island cut off before.” Hugo stares toward the ocean as he speaks. “You had the Dharma stations but Jacob didn’t put them there. Maybe the island is supposed to be cut off.”

Ben swallows and stares at the grass at their feet. He wants to counter Hugo, tell him he is wrong, tell him, selfishly, that Ben cannot do that. However, Hugo is in charge now. Ben is his advisor. Ben needs to remember his role, remember who he needs to be now.

“Is that what you want?” Ben asks.

“No,” Hugo says simply.

Ben breathes a sigh of relief. He may have chosen the island – again, always – but he does not want to give up Harold as well.

“What about the lighthouse?” Hugo says suddenly.

Ben glances up at him. “Lighthouse?”

Hugo leads them on a path Ben does not know. They approach the cliffs on one side of the island and follow them. Ben can see Hydra island in the distance. He thinks he must have been here before but, as they start to see a structure take shape in the distance, Ben knows if he had been here before then he would remember this ancient stone tower.

“I’ve never been here,” Ben says out loud.

Hugo glances back him. “Really?”

Ben shakes his head. “Never… I don’t…” But if he thinks about the little he knew of Jacob and the far more which was secret. It makes sense. Jacob must have only allowed those he wanted to come here the ability to do so. “And he never wanted me,” Ben whispers so Hugo cannot hear.

They stop at the base of the lighthouse tower. Hugo pulls open a heavy wooden door at the base of the tower. Ben follows Hugo up the circular stone steps until they reach the top. The precipice is square with window-like opens all around them. Ben notices a telescope standing in one window. In the center of the room is what appears to be a giant stone compass with an inner metal ring and a ceramic bowl in the very middle. He sees metal gears underneath the stone which he notices is mounted on a central column. Then something crunches under Ben’s feet. 

“Glass?” Ben asks as he crouches down to pick up a large shard.

“Yeah.” Hugo gestures to the empty frames Ben now notices mounted on one side of the compass. “Jack sort of freaked out.”

Ben raises his eyebrows and gestures with the piece of glass. “They were mirrors?”

Hugo laughs then sighs. “Yeah, sort of, Jack smashed them.” Hugo touches the edge of one empty metal frame. “I guess we’ll need to fix them.”

Ben watches Hugo for a moment as he looks out at the ocean, his hand still gripping the metal. Then Ben looks down at the large compass taking up most of the space. He sees degree markings then notices writing all along the outer edge. He starts to read then realizes the writing is names, surnames to be exact, one name for each degree on the outer circle. He realizes, with mild surprise, that he recognizes some of the names.

“Number eight is Reyes.” Ben looks up at Hugo again. “It’s you.”

Hugo smiles. “I think these were all Jacob’s candidates, people to bring here or replace him. You can line up the wheels and see something.” Hugo gestures to where the glass should have been. “Something important to the person; I think maybe a moment, something that mattered. When Jack went to his name on the dial it was his parent’s house.”

Ben's eyes travel around the circle looking for Sheppard which he finds at twenty-three.

“What was yours?” Ben asks Hugo as he reads down further.

“ I didn’t look…” Hugo makes a strange noise, regret or surprise. “This won’t work for communicating off of the island.” He scoffs. “It’s more like stalking.”

“Or searching, Hugo. Perhaps this is simply how Jacob found the people the island needed, and maybe you will too.”

He sees names not just from the plane crash – Rousseau, was it Danielle or his daughter – people who lived with him in the jungle and at the barracks – Stanhope for Harper or Goodwin, Burke for Juliet and Friendly must mean Tom. Then Ben sees number one hundred seventeen: Linus. Ben breathes in sharply and his hand shakes. He stares at his name, his last name, their last name, crossed out on the strange stone list.

“You said these were candidates?” Ben asks.

“Yeah.”

“Was everyone who came to this island a candidate at one time?” Ben looks up at Hugo. “Is that why every one of us came here? Were we all chosen by Jacob?”

Hugo gazes at Ben. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, not yet at least.”

Ben stares at the word ‘Linus.’ Perhaps not every person who came to the island was on the list or did Jacob add those who landed here, regardless of Jacob’s will, and decide if they were candidates afterward? Did he call those on the list to the island? If the name Linus is on this compass did it mean him or Harold or even one of his parents? Is Linus for all of them or just one? Was the reason ‘Linus’ was crossed out because Harold left? Was it supposed to be Harold here all along? Or was it Ben who destroyed his own prospects in some way? 

“Ben?” Hugo asks. “What is it?”

Ben looks up at Hugo and all he can say is, “It's my name.”

––––––––––––––––

Harold pushes the head of the shovel into the hard dirt of Central Park again. The ground is not completely frozen which helps but the going still remains slow. He stares at Mr. Dillinger’s body with each motion of the shovel – push down, scoop up, throw more dirt onto the pile. He wonders how many people still unfound lie buried in this park? How many innocent victims or mob hits, how many unmarked graves could wait just behind him?

“I tried to tell you,” Harold whispers though the black hooded threat which shot Mr. Dillinger and his contacts who wanted to buy the Machine's code (and still got away with it) is now gone. “I tried to…”

But he never told Mr. Dillinger the truth. His words to Harold still ring in Harold’s ears, ‘you made it this way when you kept me in the dark.’ Just gleaning a portion of it through Daniel Casey brought them both up here, one of them dead and the other digging his grave.

“And to think I wasn’t even trying to walk yesterday,” Harold mutters.

Harold had been trying, not a real physical therapy regimen but some stairs, around his Harold Gull apartment or stretching on the library floor, not a true effort, not enough. He supposes it shows what a life or death situation can bring out in a person. He knows his body is still broken; he cannot move quickly and not without a limp but he can walk. He walked here to try and save a life, save one more person from the destructive wake of his creation.

“And I failed,” Harold says out loud as he heaves another shovelful of dirt out of his deepening hole in the ground.

This is going to take him hours. Harold feels sweat along his hairline and around the cover of his scarf. He thinks maybe he should take it off. Which would be worse, the sweat soaking under his scarf or to shed layers out here in the snow? Dillinger’s face has begun to change to a pallor which can only be described as ‘deathly.’ Harold feels suddenly grateful to be sweating at all.

He glances up through the trees toward the road, barely visible at this distance. Harold wanted the laptop out in the world, the virus he planted slowly making its way back to free the Machine. He had not planned on lives sacrificed to do so.

“You should have let me…” Harold starts but Rick Dillinger cannot hear the whole truth now.

Harold pauses for several breaths, finally takes off his gloves and shoves them into one pocket of his coat. His back aches and his legs burn with the effort of standing so long. But the job is far from done.

“I cannot give you more than a shallow grave, Mr. Dillinger,” Harold says. “But I also can’t let anyone find you.”

It is unlikely but questions coming with anyone finding Mr. Dillinger’s body could possibly lead back to Harold, or at least a ghost-like trail to what he is doing. Harold is not ready to give up yet; Nathan hadn’t despite working the numbers alone.

Harold takes a deep breath, walks a few steps around the hole to a shallow portion then begins to dig anew. He wonders, as he moves the earth back and forth, if Ben ever found himself in this same position. After he and his people gassed Dharma did Ben spend hours with a shovel dinging each person a place of rest? Did he sweat in the jungle heat as holes grew deeper? Did he stare at the motionless faces of each one as they lay beside their grave?

“Did you bury our father, Ben?” Harold asks to the dark park. “Did he deserve that much?”

Back at the library, Harold finds a closet next to the stacks on the same level as his computer set up and puts the wheelchair away. He needs to be mobile; he needs to be able to move as fast as he can. Maybe he’ll never run again but he won’t be feeble; he won’t be useless or weak. He is not a fighter but that does not mean he shouldn’t make himself as protected as possible.

“I have to do everything I can,” Harold says as he forces himself to not sit down, to walk a circle around the table.

He will work every day, the little he tried before is not enough. He will create his own physical therapy, something real and hard, so a limp is all he has.

“Pain medication can do wonders,” Harold tells himself.

His new purpose is dangerous, it is unpredictable but it is important and he must press on to the best of his abilities. There is yet another mysterious group out there looking for the Machine. The laptop is headed to China and Harold is the only one with all the pieces. He cannot afford the luxury of complacency. There are too many lives to save.

If he has to buy a cane he will but he will not live one more day in that chair.

––––––––––––––––

Ben takes Hugo to the broken statue on the beach. 

They have traversed most of the island, checked on old Dharma stations, visited graves on the beach. Hugo becomes more comfortable with his place in the new order of the island each day, each week, each month, but such a transition, to becoming something so much more, takes time. Some days Hugo will gaze out at the ocean for hours not saying a word to Ben. Ben wonders what it is Hugo sees over the waves. So Ben decides to take him to the statue; perhaps seeing the past will help Hugo with the future.

“It’s a foot,” Hugo states.

Ben nods. “Yes.”

“Why a foot statue?”

“I imagine it used to be more than that at some point.” Ben tilts his head. “It has been broken as long as I’ve been here.”

“What was the point? Was it a god or something?”

Ben glances at Hugo then back to the stone in front of them. “Well, I think it must have been for Jacob, by whoever was on this island long before us. Jacob lived there.”

Hugo frowns. “He lived in a statue?”

Ben smiles because Hugo always states the obvious with the questions no one else bothers to ask, the real questions one should ask. “There’s a door near the bottom.” Ben gestures. “I think he liked to be separate, apart from all of us.”

“Except when he made sure to bring us all here.”

Ben looks up at Hugo. Hugo stares at the statue. His expression is drawn, unsettled.

“Would you like to go inside?”

Hugo shakes his head. “No, dude. It feels like death here.” Ben’s face falls. “Anyway, the statue was built for someone else, not me.” His expression shifts again. “Unless…” He turns to Ben. “Is that what I'm going to become? A statue? It doesn’t feel that way.”

“I suppose it depends upon you. You are a protector, that’s the extent of the job description. How you do it…” Ben glances at the statue again – a god, a man? “How, is up to you, Hugo.”

“I told everyone they could live how they want. I’m not really hanging out with them. Does that mean I am going to end up just like Jacob?”

“What do you mean?”

“Alone in a broken statue not caring except about who is going to replace me?”

Ben frowns and wonders how Hugo knows more about Jacob each day; does he still see the dead Jacob in the jungle sometimes or perhaps out over the ocean? Ben does not ask. “Just because you took over the job does not mean you take over his personality.”

“You don’t know that,” Hugo says in a voice that sounds like Harold.

Ben looks away from Hugo toward the statue again. Ben followed a monster in the guise of John Locke here and murdered Jacob. He walked into the statue and stabbed Jacob in the chest with every ounce of anger he had ever felt for everyone who wronged him in his whole life. He murdered Jacob and sent the island into chaos. 

Miles told Ben that Jacob had hoped he wouldn’t do it, that he would chose not to, but Jacob never gave him all the facts. He did not bother to try and tell Ben the truth. He did not try to save himself. Was that part of their agreement or their fight, whatever lay between the monster and Jacob? Was Jacob unable to say ‘please, don’t kill me, he is the monster,’ with a dramatic pointed finger toward John Locke? Or did Jacob always play a game of fate, his fate to die or Ben’s fate to change?

“But I didn’t change,” Ben says out loud, “not then.”

“What?” Hugo asks.

“It’s my fault,” Ben admits, “that you’re the protector now, that the island started to fall apart; it’s my fault.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m the one who killed Jacob.” Ben looks up at Hugo. “Did he tell you that when you saw him?”

Hugo shakes his head. “No, but…” Hugo glances at the statue, the sea around it then back to Ben. “I kinda knew already.”

“How?”

“I… I don’t know.” Hugo laughs once and the sound is breathy, disbelieving. “I could feel it... the stones, the sand maybe.”

“The ocean?” Ben guesses.

“The water changes, the island doesn’t,” Hugo says mysteriously.

After a pause Ben says, "Do you remember telling me that I was ‘going mystical’ on you?”

Hugo laughs. “Yeah, I was kinda wondering if that would happen.”

Ben nods. “At least a little.”

“So why did you?” Ben raises his eyebrows at Hugo’s question. “Kill him?”

“Because I was…” Ben wants to say he was manipulated, that he was deceived, that he was used, instead he says, “Because my daughter had died and I was sad and I was angry and it was easy to take that out on someone else.”

Hugo looks at him for a long moment. “I don’t know if that’s true, man.”

“It’s true enough.”

“I can tell you one thing though.” Hugo smiles. “You’re not going to murder me.”

Ben frowns and looks up at him. “I hope not.”

Hugo shakes his head. “You’re not. I could totally take you.” Ben starts to laugh. “Plus, there is no way I am living in that statue.”

Ben just laughs again. Hugo smiles and chuckles once with him. “Hey, Ben, promise me something?”

“What?”

“You won’t kill anyone again.” Ben stops laughing and stares at Hugo. Hugo smiles. “I don’t want to run the island that way anymore, executions or just shooting anyone in our way. I want… I just want people to live." He turns to face Ben with raises eyebrows. "So what do you think?”

Ben nods. “I promise.” It seems fitting to end a lifetime of casual violence and calculated executions at the place where he committed one of his most significant murders. “Never again.”

––––––––––––––––

After the loss of Rick Dillinger, Harold revisits his lists of candidates. Rick was, as he said, ‘a shark’ which clearly did not work for the job at hand. Yes, Mr. Dillinger saved numbers, right up until the moment it was more lucrative not to.

“I need someone who cares,” Harold says as he looks through lists on his laptop in a secluded diner booth.

He has many names, many possibilities, but how many of them would care for anything more than the money? All the good knights in shining armor are taken, busy being underappreciated police officers, unrecognized civil servants and overseas operatives.

Harold sighs and rubs a hand over his face under his glasses. He thinks about Nathan, sitting at Harold’s work station, staring at the faces of ‘irrelevant numbers.’ _‘When were you going to tell me…’_ Harold’s very own knight in shining armor now lost.

Harold opens his eyes again as he waiter passes by, “may I have the check, please?”

Harold walks slowly along the street, laptop bag over his shoulder, on his way back to the library. He spends more time there than is probably healthy in a social interaction sense but, then again, he has always been a loner. It was Nathan who tried to pull him out and Grace who filled in a gap. Then a payphone rings as Harold passes in front of it.

Back at the library, Harold tapes the photo of Jessica Arndt onto the free standing glass he uses as a staging area for number information. Harold stares at her face. He has received her number half a dozen times at least since he first discovered the irrelevant numbers.

“Why are you still alive?” Harold mutters.

He does not think it bad she lives, only curious. If her number came up and they did nothing to help in the past, whatever fate was awaiting her should have occurred. Harold could understand circumstances changing once and a predicted number not dying. However, Jessica has returned again and again to the Machine’s notice. Jessica is not the only one; Harold has had at least a dozen numbers like this.

“What is it?” Harold stares at her, late thirties, pretty. Harold goes through her family and friends, her husband Peter, no siblings then Harold finds an ex-boyfriend.

“John Reese…” Harold stares at the photo of the man wearing an army uniform. He was on Harold’s list of candidates before Mr. Dillinger. Harold recognized him back then and the recognition remains now. “Who are you?”

Harold combs through Jessica’s file. The previous times her number appeared Harold had been shuffling the irrelevant numbers into the recesses of the Machine, out of sight and out of mind. Now, he looks through her digital foot print, tries to figure out what makes her so special. Does she have some sort of government or criminal connection that continually puts her in harm’s way? Then he hacks into her hospital records – a different hospital or clinic every time.

_March 4th 2006: broken wrist  
Cause: falling down stairs_

_July 10th 2006: sprained wrist  
Cause: falling down stairs_

_January 16th 2007: dislocated arm  
Cause: tennis _

_May 2nd 2007: broken nose and bruising  
Cause: fall in the bathroom_

_October 7th 2007: internal abdominal bleeding and bruising  
Cause: falling down stairs_

_November 26th 2007: burns on arm and hands  
Cause: cooking_

In each hospital report the name on the forms accompanying Jessica’s is her husband, Peter. Harold does not need to read on. He feels foolish for not thinking of the obvious statistical threat at once. How can Harold save Jessica from her own husband?

The answer is inevitable; Harold does not save her. He tries what little he can. He hacks their home computers, rearranges Peter's schedule to get Jessica alone in the house and calls her to warn her, to urge her to leave. She hangs up on him so quickly every time he stops trying. He considers sending threats to Peter but more than likely that would blow back on Jessica. Then when he tries to find a way to inform the hospital where she works as an avenue for salvation, he receives an automated response about her recent passing instead.

 

Harold wheels down the halls of the New Rochelle hospital. He is faring much better with walking lately. However, he wants to leave as little a lasting impression as possible. A middle aged man in a wheelchair in a hospital is not an uncommon sight. As Harold wheels toward the nurse’s station of Jessica’s wing, he sees a tall man with a beard bordering on ragged standing at the station.

“…to tell you this but Jessica died,” the nurse is saying.

The man stares at her, mutters something Harold cannot hear as he wheels closer. The nurse looks concerned says something, Harold hears, “… husband’s here if you want to reach out.”

The man stares blankly for a moment then turns away back toward Harold. It is the boyfriend, the army one, the man on Harold’s list before Jessica’s number returned: John Reese. Mr. Reese walks toward Harold in an obvious daze and knocks into the edge of Harold’s wheel chair. As he passes without a word of apology, his hand just barely brushes Harold’s shoulder. Harold remembers like a snap.

_Fire light – New York City lights – not Nathan beside him – who are you?_

_“What were you thinking when you built the Machine?”_

_Glass tumblers in hand – the pain in his back (it makes sense now) – the smile on the man’s face when he looks at Harold_

_“I think you did change it, Finch.”_

_His hand on Harold’s forehead…_

Harold sucks in a deep breath, tries to stop himself from gasping out loud. He stares at John’s – Mr. Reese, why would he be John? – receding back. He has seen Mr. Reese before, he was with him, no, will be with him. He saw Mr. Reese before when Ben was gone, when Harold was jolted along his own time line. John Reese is Harold’s future.

“It’s you,” Harold whispers.

John Reese is the one; he is the name on Harold’s list which will be the partner he needs. From the look on Mr. Reese's face as he walked away this, the numbers, may be something he needs too. Harold’s only question now is how to get him.

––––––––––––––––

“The radio tower isn’t enough,” Hugo says to Ben one day.

Ben looks down at Hugo from his roof, hammer still half way up to nail down another shingle. "I'm sorry?"

"The radio tower," Hugo repeats. "It's not enough."

Ben frowns. "Not enough for what?"

"Communication." Ben nods slowly and Hugo continues. "I mean, it's basically just a signal, right? It's not actually being able to talk to anyone off the island."

Ben puts down his hammer. "Yes, that's true."

"We can't be completely cut off."

Ben raises both eyebrows in amusement. "No?" He slides across the roof toward his ladder then starts to climb down. "Still not ready to 'go full jungle God?'"

"It's not that."

Ben steps back onto the ground in front of Hugo. "Then?" 

"It's not safe, just because your Widmore guy is dead and fake Locke is gone doesn't mean some day we might face something else."

"Mmhmm." Ben raises his eyebrows. "Just because we protect the island doesn't mean we need to ignore the rest of the world?"

"Exactly," Hugo says with a grin. "What if World War III happens or something?"

Ben gives him a wry look, "of course, mustn't miss that."

Hugo only gives a look back which seems to say 'dude' in various tones of voice.

"So, what is your idea?" Ben asks.

Hugo crosses his arms and smiles. "I think we should rebuild The Flame."

"Perfect," Ben says quietly, and thinks of Harold at the other end of the line. Then he clicks his tongue and tilts his head at Hugo. "Though that could take a while."

"Time doesn't matter," Hugo says and Ben wants to call him mystical again. "Plus, like you said before, Ben, I have my people. I told them I'd come if I needed them. What about now?"

––––––––––––––––

Harold meets Mr. Reese for the third time, the only proper time, when Mr. Reese is homeless and lost and Harold wonders if Mr. Reese can see the same reflected back at him despite Harold’s fine suit. He may use some emotional and physical manipulation but it does not take Harold long to make Mr. Reese say yes. He shouldn't be surprised because he has already seen Mr. Reese right by his side.

Harold stands with Mr. Reese in Central Park, chooses one kernel of honesty and tells him, “the Machine is everywhere,” because he will not let Mr. Reese end up like Mr. Dillinger – that will not be his fate.

When they start to work the numbers together Harold learns how little like Mr. Dillinger Mr. Reese is; same trigger finger, same fights but different approaches, different reasons and far different morals. However, Mr. Reese is also far more curious about Harold than Mr. Dillinger ever was.

“You don’t seem like New England,” Mr. Reese says to him with a smile. “That cool exterior isn’t a true WASP.”

“Perhaps we should focus on the number, Mr. Reese?”

Mr. Reese smiles back at him in a searching way which reminds Harold of Nathan more than he would like.

So Harold and John save numbers: Clara Peters and her plan to commit matricide; Brad Westerbrooke and his bad investments; Carl Elias something unexpected and maybe even a mistake; Steven Smith and his loan shark; Zoe Morgan and her interesting career choice; Mathew Summers and his money laundering; the tenacious Joss Carter.

John Reese works to save them all and accepts only a thank you in return. Harold watches him become more of a person each day, less of the man living under a bridge with a bottle in hand. The numbers give John Reese a purpose, just as Harold hoped.

Harold also ducks Mr. Reese’s tail on his way to Universal Heritage Insurance. Harold erases more medical records from his spinal surgery under Dr. Chowdhry. Harold avoids simple questions like egg choices on a menu. (He scours known times and locations for traces of Ben and deletes anything he finds). 

Mr. Reese says, “thank you, Finch, for giving me a job,” and Harold recognizes that tone of voice from a fireside yet to happen.

He knows Mr. Reese wants to understand him, wants to learn more about this ‘man behind the curtain’ who he thinks saved him but Harold has already buried one man in the park. Mr. Reese knows about the Machine; he does not need to know about Harold (or Nathan or the ferry bomb or Harold's treason or Ben or the island).

Harold focuses on the numbers, works well with Mr. Reese everyday and in the background keeps an eye out for Ben. Ben has not tried to contact him once since he flew back to the island. Harold cannot decide if he is pleased or mournful about the silence.

––––––––––––––––

Hugo calls on the people of the island safe in their temple. It is not enough just to protect the island, to serve it, from within; they must be aware of what is beyond their shores.

"We're going to rebuild the Dharma communication station," Hugo tells them. "Just need to work on the 'how.'"

Individuals are sent out across the island to see what they have – leftover Dharma station supplies and technology, any wayward ship wrecks or parts from the plane crashes.

"Hopefully we have some people who understand building that stuff," Hugo wonders out loud as they review old Dharma supply lists.

"Engineers?" Ben fills in. "We might." He then holds up the computer text in his one hand briefly. "We also have more books than you'd think."

"Dude." Hugo laughs. "Or we could ask..." Hugo trails off as his face falls.

Ben watches him, waiting for Hugo to continue then gestures with the pencil in his other hand, "Ask?"

Hugo's gaze passes over Ben toward a window of Ben's house and the jungle outside. "Michael. We could ask Michael." 

Ben does not need to remind Hugo that Michael is dead because with Hugo death is not so final. Instead he asks, "He's still here?"

"Yeah. He's trapped here, he told me. A lot of people are."

Ben stares at him for a moment. "The whispers."

Hugo turns back to Ben. "Can I see dead people because of the island or did Jacob bring me to the island because I can see dead people?"

Ben blinks twice. "I..."

"Cause I don't think I saw any dead people before the island but then I was thinking, when I was at this mental hospital before the island I had this hallucination called Dave which was a manifestation of my guilt and self loathing but what if he wasn't? What if he was actually a dead guy and that's why only I could see him?"

Ben stares for a moment at Hugo's rush of words then puts down his pencil. "I'm afraid those are questions I can't answer and likely neither can you. You have this power which stems from the most basic part of your nature, that you care about people." Ben smiles slowly. "Even after they're dead."

"They don't come to me because I care about them," Hugo interjects. "Jacob came and I'd never even met him."

"Perhaps they come because they know you will care."

"Or because I'm the only one who can see them."

"Whether the island gave you this power or you already had it does not matter, Hugo," Ben insists, "the point is that you have it, that you were meant to have it."

"You mean like my fate?"

"Like destiny."

Hugo watches Ben, clearly mulling over the word destiny in his mind. Then he cocks his head to the side. "How do we really know what our destiny is though? Is the island, right now, my destiny?"

"It seems likely." Ben shrugs. "Hard to top."

"But maybe my destiny is my power," Hugo tries again, "talking to the dead, helping them." Hugo waves a hand in the air. "Or both!"

Ben's eyes shift toward the back hall – Alex calling from the back room, slamming her door in anger or wishing to be tucked in for bed; he sees her smiling, laughing, crying as she kneels on the ground. He sees another hall, a different house, and a face exactly like his own walking just ahead of him, glancing back.

"I have thought my destiny was many different things in my life," Ben says to Hugo. "I told John once that destiny is a fickle bitch." Hugo laughs. "You don't know what your destiny is Hugo, neither do I. It could be one moment or a calling to serve for years. It could be in the past and now is just later." Ben finally looks back at Hugo. "Jack thought his destiny was to die for the island."

Hugo's lips tighten. "It was his destiny. It had to've been." Hugo's eyes shift away and he nods to himself. "He believed it."

Ben watches Hugo, something he finds himself doing more than almost anything else lately. Perhaps Hugo is his destiny, right now, the best way for Ben to thank the island for all it's given him and forgive what it's taken away. And who's to say destiny only happens once? Is destiny just the same as living one's life?

"I think perhaps destiny is what we make of it," Ben says making Hugo look back at him again. "Maybe it's okay not to know what our destinies are."

"Maybe it's okay not to have them at all," Hugo says. "Better just to live."

"And not dwell?"

Hugo grins and sits up straighter, "and not sit around getting all philosophical when we have a job to do."

"As juvenile as it sounds for me to say," Ben says with a sly grin, "you started it."

Hugo laughs out loud and kicks Ben lightly under the table. Ben smiles back and thinks Hugo would be a fine destiny.

––––––––––––––––

"Please stay conscious, Mr. Reese," Harold says as he presses down the gas pedal harder, running a red light. "We are nearly there."

"You... shouldn't... Carter, she saw..."

"No need to belabor the point now, Mr. Reese," Harold cuts him off. "Please focus on breathing in and out."

"I should have... should have just shot Mark first."

Harold huffs a laugh he does not feel. "Your former CIA colleagues may have shot you in the head then, this way you have a chance."

John laughs, the tone weak. "That's the spirit... H–Harold..."

"Mr. Ree – John?" Harold glances up in the rearview mirror at John in the back seat. "John?"

Harold steals a lab coat, pulls a heavy duffel bag from the trunk of the car and awkwardly hoists John, with what little help John can provide, onto a gurney. He rushes down the morgue hallway toward help, 'not again, not him, not yet,' looping through his head.

When Harold wheels John up to the mortician's table he recites the facts he learned on the man he chose months ago; "Your name is Farooq Madan and you were the best surgeon in Najd but you can't afford a license in the states because you send all your money home to family." Harold takes the bag off his shoulder, unzips it and pours bundles of money out onto the metal table. "Stitch him up, no questions asked, and you can be a doctor again."

Farooq barely pauses in getting to work.

Hours later, Harold sits beside the bed where John sleeps. The condo once belonged to Nathan after his divorce. Olivia and Will believe it was sold by the condominium association. In full disclosure, it was bought at twice its value before even going on the market again.

Harold watches John breathe in and out, covers pulled halfway up his chest and one IV with fluids in his arm. Harold checks his watch, four in the morning, then watches John breathe some more. "Keep breathing," he whispers.

He still sees John stumbling out of the exit door to the parking garage stairs; still feels the jolt of the car over the garage ramp; still sees Detective Carter's surprise of recognition as Harold stared at her with John heavy over his shoulders; still counts those seconds as he kept her gaze, waited for her to make the right decision.

"She let us go, John," he says to John as he sleeps. "You saved her and she returned the favor."

Harold glances around the bedroom, sparse and just as Nathan kept it - one bed, one side table, one dresser, an abstract painting relying heavily on brown hues. Grace would have called the painting 'naturalistic' and hated it. He wonders if Ben would like it. Harold isn't sure why he hasn't redecorated the condo. Perhaps the space has become a sort of memorial to Nathan or perhaps Harold has had bigger things to spend his time on.

Harold shifts his eyes away from the painting back to the rise and fall of John's chest. He seems peaceful, calm, not like he was shot this evening. Harold rubs a hand over his eyes under this glasses. It is not as if he thought John could avoid serious injury forever but perhaps not yet? If this is how the numbers will progress, how will the two of them make it to that night with two chairs, empty glasses and the lights of New York City below them?

"Finch?"

Harold pulls his hand away quickly, almost knocking off his glasses. "John?"

John looks at him, blinks slowly a few times. “You came to get me.”

Harold stares at him for a moment then nods. “I did.”

John swallows once. Harold reaches for the glass of water waiting on the bedside table but John shakes his head and waves Harold's hand away from the glass. He shifts toward Harold, grimacing once. "You can't do that, Finch, you can't risk it."

Harold stares at John - his name has shifted in Harold's internal monologue. Then he sits up straight and gives John his 'no arguments' look. "You are not expendable, Mr. Reese."

It seems Harold's relationship with John is not going to remain as simple as employee and employer despite Harold's best efforts.

––––––––––––––––

Ben and Hugo work side by side, use pieces from old stations and Dharma pallet drops to build walls and electric equipment and satellite dishes. They follow plans, hammer nails, laugh, cooperate, and create more than just a building. Ben thinks Hugo will become a friend. 

But he wishes he knew if Harold is safe.

––––––––––––––––

Harold and John work side by side, hacking and gunshots and close saves as the Machine rings another payphone each day. They gain allies, detectives, lives instead of deaths and create more than just a network. Harold knows John is becoming a friend.

And he wishes keeping Ben away will make him safe.

––––––––––––––––

Hugo’s resurrection of The Flame fills months and months of time. Technology is salvaged, parts borrowed from The Tempest, TV sets from Hydra Island, wires and plugs and pieces from The Pearl and The Orchid; intricate electrical plans find their way onto paper then into life. (Ben does not ask if Hugo whispered to the jungle and heard Michael return guidance). With so many of them lifting and hammering and measuring and soldering – Zach and Emma running around to deliver parts and water like gophers – the project ends up finishing faster than Ben expected. 

Ben had forgotten the feeling of comradery in moving toward a physical, common goal. Perhaps it was his exile which drove the community connection away; or perhaps he lost it long before that when he ascended to the role of leader. Had he really forgotten those early days sitting by the fire with Jean before they lost her, practicing shooting with Pryce or playing with Alex in a field, Tom and Colleen beside him?

Now, it’s funny how rewarding physical labor can be; watching something form and become real under your hands. He does not yearn for Alex or worry about Harold every minute. He just focuses on the task at hand. Maybe, Ben wonders, this is healing.

“Would you like to ‘flip the switch?’” Cindy asks Hugo.

He shakes his head. “Nah, we all worked together. You go ahead.”

She nods at him then flips up the handle of the basement electrical breaker. They hear a whoop of success and clapping from upstairs. Cindy and Ben look at each other then smile at Hugo.

“Awesome,” Hugo says.

They test every system – radio signals and long range media channels. The satellite dishes now on the top of the building are powerful but still limited. Jason, a television production tech in another life, is able to find satellites which they can bounce signals off of which gives them access to news programs in New York City for a start. That is how Ben sees the broadcast.

The others have left Hugo and Ben to themselves at The Flame.

“Can’t we just call it the communications center or something?” Hugo asks.

Ben tries to pick out some set access points to news of the world for each screen to monitor. He decides CNN should work well for most American news. Then he stops just before moving to another TV set focused on a Chinese satellite when he sees a report with the word ‘bomb’ in the title.

“… as many will remember one year ago,” the short haired newscaster says. “Reconstruction on the new ferry terminal is nearly complete after last year’s terrorist bombing which took the life of dozens of New Yorkers, well known CEO of technology company IFT, Nathan Ingram among them.” A photo of Nathan in black tie appears beside the woman’s head. “The ferry is expected to open again for customers next month.”

The report changes to another story but Ben does not hear it, does not see it. Puzzle pieces of memory fall together in his mind with echoing clacks – the pain in his neck, passing out on the beach, aches when nothing is wrong, Nathan dead, silence from Harold and that worry, unease just out of reach – all fit into one answer: Harold was at the ferry bombing.

“Harold…” Ben whispers.

He sees Harold – an explosion, pain, screams and the fear of Harold in New York City on 911 rushing through all over again. He wants more details, wants to rip the newscaster out of TV and ask her for lists, for names, for every bit of what happened. Harold could have been hurt or still is hurt, is alone, lost, has been left on his own with the fall out because Ben did not know for a year!

“Ben?”

Ben looks up sharply at Hugo saying his name. He realizes he is shaking and tries to calm down, to school his features over the panic. “Hugo?”

Hugo frowns. “What's wrong?”

Ben pulls out his best trust me smile. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Looks more like you want to throw up.”

“Of course not, everything is fine.” Ben sticks his smile in place.

Hugo stares at him for a moment then clears his throat. “Hey Ben, since we're working together and on an island all the time together maybe you shouldn’t lie to me, right? I mean, I am kinda your boss now.”

Ben opens his mouth to retort – to say he is not lying – then shuts his mouth again. He grits his teeth for a moment then nods. “You have a point.” He is allowed to trust someone else, he _should_ trust someone else, and Hugo asked him to be here, to help him. Ben owes him truth. He clears this throat then looks Hugo in the eye. “I have a brother.”

Hugo's eyes widen. “A brother?”

“In New York.”

“What, like, in the mountains?” Hugo asks. Ben frowns in confusion. Hugo shrugs in response. “Well, you're this mysterious guy living on a magic island I figured he must be like a survivalist or something.”

“No, Hugo, not a survivalist.” At least not how Hugo means.

Hugo raises his eyebrows. “Assassin?”

Ben suddenly finds himself laughing, just a bit of the tension eased. “I don’t think so.” He turns back to the news feed. “No, he is in New York City.” Then he turns to Hugo again. “I think something has happened to him.”

“Happened?”

“Something not good.”

“And you want to go find out?”

Ben smiles at Hugo. “If that’s all right?”

Hugo grins. “Of course, dude, remember no one has to stay here if they don’t want. I mean, I still need your help and all, I get family and stuff, but –”

“I didn’t say forever, Hugo, just…” He glances at the screens again. “I have to know if he is all right.” He thinks of fire, destruction, the man who he only met once now dead and Harold… “I have to help my brother.”

They don’t abandon each other, not any more.

––––––––––––––––

Harold climbs the library stairs slowly, more conscious of his limp with baby Leila in his arms. She makes a soft cooing noise with each step as she bounces just enough to amuse. One of her hands tries to grip the arm of Harold’s glasses but she is too tired to make her fingers work.

“Almost there,” Harold says to her.

John waits at the gate when Harold and Leila arrive. His expression shifts into confusion when he sees the baby.

“Finch, when you said you’d done something rash…”

“Yes.”

“You became a child kidnapper?”

Harold sighs. “This is our number, Mr. Reese; meet Leila.”

John tilts his head to get a better look at her. "Who would want to kill a baby?”

“I had the same sentiments.”

Leila finally gets a real grip on Harold’s glasses. She pulls enough to get one arm off his ear but not enough to pull them from his face.

“All right,” Harold says. He reaches up and gently pries Leila’s hand off of his glasses. “I need those.” Then he rights his glasses.

“We’ll need to find you something to play with, won’t we?” Harold bounces her a few times in his arms and she giggles. “Need to find you some baby food too.” Harold searches her face then raises his eyebrows in mock astonishment. “Carrots? Or Peas?” 

She grins at him and makes a grab for Harold’s glasses again but Harold dodges her.

“We can’t do anything more tonight, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, still bouncing Leila slightly. “We will have to trace her trail to the hospital in the morning; find out who her parents may be.” Harold looks away from Leila after John’s lack of response to see him smiling. Harold frowns. “Something you care to share, Mr. Reese?”

“Just thinking how this isn’t the first time you’ve held a baby.”

Harold presses his lips together then furrows his brow. “I am over forty, Mr. Reese, I’ve held a baby before.”

“Which means you’ve had friends and family around at some point, Finch,” John counters not unkindly.

Harold stares at him for two beats. “So did you, Mr. Reese.”

 

Harold takes Leila to his ‘Harold Crane’ loft. He asks the doorman to arrange for some baby food and diapers to be purchased and sent up for his niece as he’d forgotten to shop.

Harold pushes open his loft door, a piece of paper on the floor from the condo association, something about new paint proposals. Harold locks the door behind him one handed as Leila fidgets, beginning to whine.

“Yes, I know,” He says to her as they walk down the hall to the living room. “We will eat soon.”

He flips on the light switch so a lamp beside the couch turns on. Harold looks at the couch, remembers a stack of blocks on the floor. The only other child which has ever been in this apartment was Will. Harold swallows once then walks them into the living room. He sits on the couch with Leila on his lap. She pulls at his tie and Harold lets her. He reaches across her to the closed laptop on his nearly bare coffee table. He opens the laptop, turns it on then opens a proxy server and browser window. Leila tugs at his tie again, pulling it half out of his vest.

“Let’s not choke me,” Harold says to her as he pulls his hand away from the keyboard to loosen his tie and undo his top shirt button.

Harold hacks into the NYU system and searches for Will Ingram’s student file. Will is in his last year of his pre-med program; his grades are good. Harold sees an application to ‘Doctors Without Borders’ on file as well as a recommendation from one of his professors.

“Good boy,” Harold says quietly. He wants to call Will, tell him that Nathan would be proud of him, tell him that Harold is proud of him.

Then a knock on the door makes Harold jump and Leila being to wail. 

Harold and Leila play an interesting game of ‘guess what I will eat versus what I will throw’ in Harold’s kitchen. Fortunately, he only ends up with some pureed peas on his white shirt – his jacket and vest safely away in the closet – while Leila decides that the interesting combination of chicken and prunes is the best thing on the menu. The floor of Harold’s kitchen and counter where Leila sits do not fair quite as well.

Back in the living room, Harold pushes the table aside so he can sit with Leila on the floor. He gives her an old mouse with loud clicking buttons to play with and a polestar tie Olivia gave him as a joke once.

“You can drool on it if you like,” Harold tells Leila needlessly.

He fiddles around halfheartedly on his laptop. He wants to find video feeds of Will; watch him go through his day and see that he is happy and healthy and not destroyed by their shared loss. “All grown up now,” Harold whispers.

He looks at Leila on the floor, the tie trapped under her foot and thinks about Will when he was one year old, crying in Harold’s play pen because Will never liked to be away from Olivia. He thinks about Will when he was two, so excited to be able to walk and run that he nearly knocked himself out on the coffee table as Harold chased him around the chairs. He thinks about Will when he was three and Harold read him ‘Harold and the Purple Crayon’ sitting together on the carpet.

“You’re going to be all right, Leila,” Harold tells her, “just like Will.”

John calls before Harold puts Leila to bed. “She treating you all right? I don’t hear any crying.”

“Not yet.”

“Have any plans on how to stop the crying should it happen, Finch? Is it different for boys and girls?”

“Your fishing is weak, Mr. Reese,” Harold says as he builds a wall of couch pillows on the one side of his bed to protect Leila.

“Just how many babies have you taken care of, Finch?” John asks without any attempt at subtlety this time. “Are there nieces and nephews out there?”

Harold lies Leila down on one side of his bed, her eyelids dropping and her fingers gravitating toward her mouth. Harold remembers baby Will with his stuffed elephant, Nathan and Olivia staring at him from either side of the crib. 

“Perhaps, Mr. Reese,” is all Harold replies.

Harold sleeps beside Leila, the two of them waking up almost every hour when she cries. Harold wonders if Ben ever laid beside Alex like this when she was still small. Harold wraps his hand around Leila’s little fingers and tries not to think of Nathan holding Will so proudly or Ben’s face as he told Harold every detail of Alex’s life. 

––––––––––––––––

The first big problem in Ben's new mission toward New York and Harold is their lack of boat. The submarine has been sunk for years, the long boats only work well between islands and the last sail boat on the island took Desmond home a year ago. Irrationally Ben thinks perhaps he could climb back down into the ice cave, turn the wheel of the island and transport to Tunisia again. However that comes with an unpredictable bit of time travel.

"And I think we can do something a bit more direct, Ben," Hugo tells him with a 'don't be crazy' expression.

So they fix the glass mounts on the lighthouse compass.

"The question is, will it still show you candidates?" Ben asks as they fit a sheet of glass into one empty frame. "Jacob used it to bring you and the others here but that has all happened now; is there anyone left?"

"Well, I'm not going to live forever," Hugo says then frowns. "I don't think at least." He shrugs with one shoulder. "Someone is going to have to take over some day and maybe they aren't here yet."

"Maybe they aren't born yet," Ben says darkly.

Hugo frowns. "Have a little faith, man."

Ben has always had faith, belief even, but he has trouble right now pushing the vision of Harold bloody and alone from his mind.

It takes Hugo days alone in the lighthouse. Ben keeps bringing sandwiches to the door and ends up eating them himself on the cliff side. He starts to worry that Hugo is turning the 'jungle God' corner and might stop caring, might turn into the cold, aloof Jacob. His worries, of course, are unfounded.

"Someone's coming," Hugo says after four days of lighthouse vigil and gives no more details.

Several weeks later they see a boat on the horizon. Ben barely waits for the ship to reach the shallows before he is on board turning it back the other way, following where Hugo leads.

"Good luck," Hugo tells him. "Call me if you need me. The Flame part II is up and running after all."

Ben smiles. "I will."

The closest island, this time, turns out to be Hawaii though it still takes Ben almost a week of worried sailing to reach it. Ben hits up a pawn shop on his way to the airport to buy a laptop and a cellphone. He calls Harold's landline and listens as it rings and rings in his ear. Ben leaves a voicemail. "Harold, I know something is wrong. I am coming to New York."

The soonest flight he could find does not take off for seven hours, so he sits on a gray, nondescript couch in a central corridor of shops and restaurants in the airport terminal with the laptop on his lap. He browses CNN and MSNBC for old new stories from the day of the ferry bombing.

_CNN [12:10] - An explosion has destroyed the 34th street ferry terminal in New York City. Emergency personal have been dispatched but no number of casualties is yet to be reported._

_MSNBC [01:40] - Twelve are so far confirmed dead in the 34th street ferry bombing. Triage for those injured in being set up at a nearby middle school. Police have locked down the area and the bomb squad is inspecting the epicenter of the explosion for any undetonated devices._

_CNN [11:06] - Twenty-eight are confirmed dead with at least a dozen missing according to personal items located among the wreckage of the ferry bombing in New York City. At least forty are injured and receiving emergency treatment at the triage center._

_Authorities located the remains of a van with explosive residue. The incident is confirmed to be a terrorist act, though no name of the perpetrator is yet to be disclosed. All those with family members possibly at the ferry are asked to visit the website below for updates._

Ben clicks on the link and sees Nathan Ingram on the list of those lost. He then recognizes 'Harold Martin' and 'Harold Wren' among the names of those missing in the river.

"You decided to die twice?" Ben says as his hands clench, wanting to pull Harold straight through the laptop into his arms. Ben shakes his head. "But you're not dead." He repeats the phrase over and over in his head because they know, they have always known, "we'll die together so you're alive, Harold. You're alive."

He touches the laptop screen under the name 'Harold Wren' somewhat impulsively. Then he shakes his head. "Don't worry, Harold, I'm coming. You won't be alone."

When Ben lands in New York City, he takes a taxi straight to Harold's townhouse. He knows that Harold has many residences but the townhouse has always felt like a home, even to Ben. It is the home they shared together for a time, more a home than any from their childhood. Alex's picture is inside; Ben has slept in a bed there; he knows a radio transmitter set for the island's frequencies lives on the top floor. If Harold is waiting to be found, Ben will find him there.

"Harold?" Ben calls as he knocks on the door.

After thirty seconds of waiting, Ben digs around in his pocket and pulls out his key. He opens the door and steps into the hall. The air smells stale and the lighting is dim, all the curtains closed.

"Harold?" Ben calls again. Part of him wants to search every inch of the house but he already knows Harold is not here. "Harold, where are you?" Ben asks again. 

Ben takes a few more steps inside, letting the door close behind him, then he notices what looks almost like a place card at a wedding propped up horizontally on the hall table. The front of the card reads 'Ben' in Harold's handwriting. Ben stares at the card for a moment then snatches it up. Ben flips the card open and inside it reads: _I am fine but it is not safe. Please do not look for me._

"'Not safe?" Ben reads. "What does that mean?" He looks up at the room in front of him. "What does that mean? Harold?"

He pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and dials one of Harold's cell numbers. The phone rings four times before Ben hangs up again with a frustrated noise. 

Ben drops the card on the table and shouts at the house, "Fine? If you're fine then why are you not here, Harold?" He waits as if he really expected an answer. Knowing Harold, there may be cameras hidden somewhere watching him right now. "I don't believe you, Harold," Ben shouts again. "You are not fine!" He bangs a hand on the table in frustration. "We don't lie to each other!"

He pulls out his phone and dials Harold's number again.“Come on Harold,” Ben mutters.

Ben feels a sudden untraceable terror that must be Harold as the phone starts to ring.

 

"Oops!" Root says brightly as she pulls Harold's ringing phone out of his jacket pocket. "Can't forget about that." Then she throws the cellphone out the car window. "Don't want anyone crashing our road trip!"

Root brushes a hand over Harold's hair making him flinch away, though he keeps staring straight ahead at the road. She taps her gun on the steering wheel beside his knuckle white hand. "Keep on driving, Harry."

Behind on the pavement, a car going in the opposite direction runs over the phone and cuts off the line at the third ring in Ben's ear.


	13. A Fickle Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We don't abandon each other._
> 
> [Ben searches for Harold as he tries to hide and they both encounter new dangers]

Harold and John approach a bar several blocks away from the library. John said Harold needed to try something new in terms of drinking establishments though the obvious reason is to remove Harold from his self–imposed safety zone. The new dog walks alongside John. Harold wonders about the bar allowing said dog inside. However, from the nod John shares with the senior bar tender as they walk in, it will clearly not be a problem.

Harold scans the bar for recognizable faces, a habit he had developed since the ferry bombing but in recent weeks has taken on a new urgency. Harold notices a woman seated at the bar lock her eyes on John with a creeping smile. Then Harold feels John touch his back as he pushes Harold gently forward toward a booth along one side of the bar. The woman's expression falls and she swivels back around in her seat. They sit down across from each other, the dog scooting under the table and lying at their feet with his head facing out. Harold can feel the dog's paw on his shoe.

“Why exactly is he named Bear?” Harold asks glancing down at the furry creature then back up to John. “Seems a somewhat erroneous name.”

“He ate Leon's bag of bearer bonds.”

Harold's lips spread into a smile. “You decided against 'Bond?'“

John tilts his head, looking at the dog for a moment. “Bear is better.”

“I see.”

Harold glances around what he can see of the bar. John positioned the two of them so John could face the entrance, limiting Harold's view. However, the simple booths and wooden tables are information enough to label this bar as an after work, locals establishment, nothing noisy or overcrowded or frequented by many twenty–somethings; just enough of a public space without being overwhelming. As usual, John has done his job well.

“What can I get you?” Harold looks up at a redheaded woman of obvious blue–collar roots. “Food or just drinks?”

“Whatever dark beer you have on tap,” John says looking at Harold more than her with an eyebrow raise.

Harold stares at him for a moment then looks up at the woman. “An old fashioned, please, no ice.”

“Got it.” Then she turns away again.

“I guess when you go out, you go out strong, huh, Finch?”

“I am not much of a beer drinker, Mr. Reese.”

“Of course not.”

Harold watches John for a moment, shifts his feet under the dog. He hears conversation around him about politics, an upcoming marathon, Prada's new line. John keeps watching Harold and Harold knows this technique, cultivating the urge to fill the silence. John has made the effort to lead Harold beyond simple rescue. Harold may as well cave, John does deserve it.

“I know you are unlikely to listen to me if I tell you this is unnecessary.” John only raises his eyebrows. “However, since we are here, I will say I believe I am going to be all right.”

John nods. “I know you are, Finch.”

“Are you reassuring me?”

John smiles. “If you need me to.”

“You can't rescue me from everything, Mr. Reese,” Harold chides. “You don't need to.”

“I can try.”

“I am simply reminding you I am not the damsel in distress we need to worry about.”

“Well, not the damsel.”

Harold smiles. “Is that a joke?”

John shrugs. “I can be funny, Finch.”

Harold actually does laugh at that. “On occasion.”

“Just because you haven't saved me from kidnapping,” John now says seriously, “doesn't mean you haven't saved me too.”

“I know,” Harold replies quietly.

“So you're going to have to get used to me coming after you.”

Harold nods. “Let’s hope there is not such a need again.”

“Here you are.” Their server puts a pint glass down in front of John then a short tumbler down in front of Harold. “Enjoy.”

As she walks away, Harold feels the cellphone in his pocket vibrate. He pulls it out and holds it low by his hip. Only a small number of people know this cellphone number and one of them is sitting with him.”

“Finch.”

Harold puts the phone back in his pocket after he sees the notification for a voicemail. “Thank you, Mr. Reese,” Harold says. “For what you did and for now.”

Harold holds up his glass and John clinks his against Harold's. “I won't let her hurt you again, Harold.”

Harold only smiles at him, does not raise any fears, simply accepts John's sword and shield. 

When John gets up to go to the bathroom, one beer finished, Harold listens to the voicemail.

_Answer me, Harold. You left me that note, you knew I’d come. I want to help. We don't abandon each other. I know what happened with the ferry, with Nathan. … Harold, answer the phone, you can't shut me out._

Harold wants to call him back, to tell Ben to stop looking for him, to go back to his island where it is safe. Will that only make Ben want to find him more? If Harold stays silent, will Ben eventually heed his wishes and stay away? He cannot risk Ben too, not when he has John now to worry about, not when he lost Nathan. Ben will stop. He has to.

Harold erases the voicemail.

––––––––––––––––

Ben searches every residence he knows Harold owns; the Gull apartment with its sparse furniture, the Partridge house with its law books, even his old Wren and Martin addresses in case Harold held onto them after those aliases 'died.' He finds nothing, no Harold, no trace. He runs down a few leads to see if Harold has more aliases Ben does not know about. He calls up Harold's old insurance job and IFT. Both businesses inform Ben of Harold's death and it makes Ben want to scream. Ben considers looking elsewhere but this is Harold and where better to hide than the crush and sprawl of New York City?

Ben finally decides he has to go see the one lead he wished to avoid. Harold has left him no choice.

“Grace Hendricks?”

“Harold!” Grace gasps and has to grip the doorjamb to steady herself as she stares at Ben standing on her stoop. “Oh, Harold, I... I thought...”

“I'm not Harold,” Ben says quickly before she tries to kiss him or slap him. “May I come in?”

“Not Harold?” She frowns in confusion. “What are you... what do you mean you're not Harold?” Grace asks, not moving from her doorway. “The ferry bomb, Harold, did something happen to your memory, is that why…”

“I am Harold's brother,” Ben interrupts her. “My name is Ben.”

“Harold doesn't have a brother,” Grace says.

Ben gives her an incredulous look. “Do you have another explanation for this resemblance?”

“You can’t be…”

“I am.”

“Harold has a twin?” Grace says lamely.

“May I come in?” Ben asks again with a smile.

Grace steps out of the doorway so he can walk past her into the house. He glances around the space, yellow walls, wood floors and shelves holding various painting supplies. He tries to imagine Harold here. Then the door closes and he turns back to Grace. 

She stares at him for several seconds in silence. She holds her hands up close to her chest like she wants to reach out and touch him but knows she can't. “I'm sorry,” she says quietly, “it's just...”

“Disconcerting?”

“Yes. You look...”

“Just like him, yes.”

“You didn't come to the memorial,” Grace says with a weak flop of her hands. “I put it in the paper.”

“I only learned about what happened a month ago.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know to contact you. He never told me about you.” She smiles in a strained way. “He was very private.” She does not sound satisfied with her own answer.

“We have a complicated relationship,” Ben says. “But I'm not here to reminisce and I cannot waste time sugar coating anything when I've already missed a year. I'm here because I need to find Harold.”

Grace frowns. “Find him?” Her fingers flex. “They didn't find his body after the explosion.”

“I need to find him,” Ben repeats. “Has he contacted you at all?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Does he have another address I don't know about other than this?” Ben holds up a piece of paper with the Harold Martin address. “Is there somewhere you know he might hide?”

“Hide?” Grace shakes her head. “Ben, Harold is dead.”

Ben pulls back the hand holding the addresses and puts it in his pocket again, “no, he is not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No.” Ben shakes his head. “He is not dead.”

She gives him a pitying look. “I know this must be hard for you, harder than it has been for me but he's gone.”

Ben sighs in frustration. “You don't understand.”

“I understand,” Grace insists. “I understand still thinking I'll see him when I wake up in the morning, turning to ask him something and forgetting he's not there. I understand listening to the same voicemail I have saved from him over and over.” She steps forward and grips Ben's hand. “I went to the trauma center after the accident. I didn't get to say goodbye.” She takes a shaky breath. “We had so little time together.”

“Little time!” Ben snaps and pulls his hand away from her. He wants to shout at her, tell her she has no idea about lost time, no idea about missing moments and wanting to replay what little you have. He breathes in deeply to stop himself saying anything rash. “Grace,” he starts again, “anything at all might help, even something small.”

“Maybe I should get you some tea. It could help you relax for a moment,” Grace tries, her expression becoming concerned.

Ben shakes his head. “Harold drinks tea. I don't.”

Grace smiles. “Funny, little differences in twins?”

“Please, think,” Ben continues. “Is there anything he was talking about before the bombing? Places or people he mentioned? Is there anyone else who may know where to find him?”

Grace shakes her head. “I'm sorry. I don't know what to say to make you hear me. Harold is dead.”

Ben sighs. “I need you to hear me and understand that he is not. I know he is not. He may have abandoned you but I am not abandoning him. He needs my help. I have to find him.”

She stares at him but she does not really see him. She is not going to believe him.

“Listen to me,” Ben says somewhat desperately now, “Harold has to be alive because I am still here! If I am alive then so is he.”

She watches him for a long moment. Then she reaches out and touches his cheek. She stares into his eyes and he knows she sees Harold, not him.

“You are here,” she says quietly. “So am I, but he's not. We are left behind.”

At least in this she is not wrong.

“Why don't you say for dinner?” She asks as she pulls her hand back.

“Thank you, no.” Ben shakes his head and starts to walk around her toward the door.

“Please, it can help to talk about him, even just a little. It could help you.” His hand touches the front door and Grace laughs in a distracted way. “Just a few weeks ago a detective was at my door and talked with me about Harold. Even that little bit with a stranger helped.”

Ben turns back toward her with a frown. “A detective?”

––––––––––––––––

John walks into the library leading a short man with a bag over his head.

“You brought him here?” Harold asks in annoyance.

“You said we had another number. I didn't have time to do anything else with him,” John snips back.

John pushes the man down in a chair then pulls off his hood. Leon Tao blinks up at the two of them and around the room in confusion. He looks at Harold then stops stock–still. Harold does not like the look of recognition on his face.

“What are you doing here?” He asks Harold.

Harold frowns. “I work with Mr. Reese.”

“He's the one that helped save your life tonight,” John says.

“The boss?” Mr. Tao says slowly as if waiting for Harold to contradict him. When Harold says nothing he smiles. “Well, never figured John here for upper management.”

“We have a problem Leon,” John says. “We have to go take care of another matter but the Russians still want you dead.”

“So, despite my misgivings,” Harold says, “you have to stay here.”

“And where is here?” Mr. Tao asks.

Neither of them answer Mr. Tao’s question. John starts to walk toward their little commissary to show Mr. Tao what they have by way of sustenance but Mr. Tao puts his hand on Harold's chest to hold him back. “What are you doing here? How are you even here?”

Harold frowns at him. “What exactly are you referring to, Mr. Tao?”

Mr. Tao frowns. “Sure, right, call me 'Mr. Tao' instead of Miles, whatever. You’re Finch instead of Ben, what’s that weird name change?” Harold's eyes widen but he somehow manages to keep his facial expression in check. “I know how _I_ managed to get off that island but there was only one plane, not to mention it felt like the whole island was going to sink.”

“Sink?” Harold cannot stop himself gasping in concern. “Just how long have you been off the island?”

“How long have _you_ been off the island, Ben? Is there something I need to know?”

“Everything all right?”

Mr. Tao and Harold look up at John as he comes back into the main room. He looks at Harold but Harold shakes his head, 'nothing to worry about.' “Just a moment, Mr. Reese.”

Harold turns back to Mr. Tao and lowers his voice. “I am Mr. Finch now and that is all you need to know.”

“Ben...”

“Mr. Finch,” Harold corrects. “We helped you tonight and we are going to continue to help you. Then we will both go our separate ways. Is that acceptable to you?”

Mr. Tao stares at him for a moment. “As long as I don't end up back on that island, I’m good.”

“I'm not here to recruit you, if that is what you’re worried about.”

“A little, just can't help but be curious about what made you change your mind to leave the island for this.” He waves a hand to indicate the library. “Seemed like you were do or die when I last saw you.”

Harold keeps his face a mask despite the questions he wants to ask. “That's my business. Now, let us show you around so Mr. Reese and I can take care of our business.”

“What, shoot someone business or save someone business?” Mr. Tao asks with a huff. “You got a gun in that suit too? Wonder which of you is the better shot.”

Harold glares at Mr. Tao.

When Harold and John leave the library, Harold wonders if there is any way he can get any more information about Ben out of Mr. Tao – or is it Miles? His phone vibrates in his pocket. Harold pulls it out and clicks answer without thinking.

“Harold?” Ben's voice says before Harold can speak. “Harold, I –”

Harold abruptly hangs up the phone, his hand shaking. Ben's voice sounded raw.

“Harold?” Harold turns to John standing a step or two behind him. John looks searchingly at Harold. “Is something going on?”

Harold stares at John. “Yes, Mr. Reese, we have another number to help.”

––––––––––––––––

It only takes Ben visiting three precincts in his search for the mysterious 'Detective Stills' to figure out that the real Stills must be dead and whomever is masquerading with his badge likely has a connection to Harold. Grace said the detective had been tall, salt and pepper hair, 'handsome' in a conventional way and not really what she thought of police officers to look like. The missing person poster Ben finds in the fifty–first precinct looks nothing like the description from Grace. If someone is using Detective Stills' badge then perhaps someone made a report about the fraudulent detective. 

Ben visits the eighth precinct to find a Detective Fusco who previously was partners with Detective Stills. If anyone is looking into a missing detective it would be his ex–partner, wouldn't it? 

“Hello,” Ben says with a smile to the officer at the intake desk. “I am looking for –”

“Finch?”

Ben turns to a young black woman about his height standing beside him now. He sees a badge on her belt. “Detective?”

“I can help this gentleman.” She says to the desk sergeant with a smile meant to silence Ben. “Thanks, Rodriguez.” Then she hooks her hand around Ben's elbow and leads him back into the open grid of detective desks.

“What are you doing here, Finch?” She asks in hushed tones with a cautious smile in place as they stop by what Ben assumes must be her desk.

“Looking for you, Detective,” Ben tries.

“Thought you preferred stalking my phone instead of meeting face to face?” Then her expression changes. “Is something wrong, is it John?”

“How do you know about John?” Ben says thinking of John Locke. Does she know Ben killed him despite now wishing he hadn't? Ben recovers quickly, however, because she thinks he is Harold. She does not know _him_. “What do you know about John?” Ben tries by way of a cover up.

“Don't play games with me, Finch, is he all right?” She asks. “He's been shot before because of the 'work' you two do.”

“Yes...” Ben says slowly.

She stares at him. “So?”

Ben is about to make up a lie, redirect the conversation, but then he realizes his opportunity. He shifts his expression into one of concern. “I am trying to find John actually, Detective...” He does not know her name yet and the way she stands blocks her nameplate. “...Detective. I have not been able to reach him.”

“He's not answering your calls?”

“No.”

She frowns. “And you can't find him? That's not a good sign with what you are usually hacking into.”

“No,” Ben says, “it isn't. Could you try calling him?”

She frowns again and walks around her desk. He sees her nameplate reads 'Detective Carter.' “Just call him? Why would he answer me if he is not answering you?”

Why indeed. Who is this John to Harold? They apparently are 'working' together, whatever the 'working' means. Is it Harold's Machine again?

“I know it is something simple, Detective Carter,” Ben says to her innocently, “but it doesn't hurt to try.”

She gives him a confused look but pulls out her cellphone regardless. She hits a few buttons then puts the phone to her ear. After what must be only one ring she opens her mouth to talk then jerks in surprise. “John, what are –” She shakes her head at whatever he says. “Okay, but Fin –” She gives Ben a look of consternation which must be related to the phone call. “Wait, just, where are you, I –” Her eyes widen for a moment then she pulls the phone away from her ear with a sigh.

Ben glances quickly at the papers on her desk while she listens a moment longer. A report reads 'Joss Carter' at the top. 

“Well, he is at a bar in Brooklyn.” She puts her phone back in her pocket. “I've been there a few times, and it sounds like he is beating up the whole place.” She shakes her head as she writes down what must be the address. “You'll want to get down there just so I don't have to arrest him.”

Ben smiles as she hands him the piece of paper. “Thank you, Joss.”

She gives him a strange look and Ben thinks about procedural cop dramas. Aren't all the officers called by their last names? Maybe people only call her Carter.

“You look different without your glasses, Finch,” she says absently as he is about to leave. “Younger.” 

Ben grins at her. “I only wear them to look smarter.” Then he turns away as she laughs in startled surprise.

––––––––––––––––

“Mr. Reese, how is our –”

“Abby’s fine, I got her out the side entrance,” John replies in a strained fashion. Harold hears gunshots over the line.

“Mr. Reese, are you all right?”

“A few friends crashed our party.”

“Oh dear,” Harold checks the video feeds of the dim bar. “That is more than a few.”

“Finch, I need a way out.”

“I’m afraid they are blocking the side door now. If you can get to the front…”

“I don’t think so, Finch.” Harold hears something like glass crash. “I’m pinned down.”

“You have to try, it’s only…”

Then suddenly Harold hears a gunshot far too close to John’s earpiece for it to be John firing at one of his adversaries. Harold stands up abruptly, no view of John clear on his screens. Before he can say John’s name, however – ask if he is all right, if he is alive – John’s voice asks, “Finch?”

Ben slams his back against the heavy bar couch which John has made his cover, gun in hand. He smiles quickly at John. “You looked as though you could use some help and the front door was open.”

John stares at him in confusion. “What?”

“I'll do my best but my aim is not as good as yours; plus I’m somewhat out of practice.” He smiles. “No promises.”

Ben peeks his head around one side of their cover, fires three shots and takes down one of the mob thugs with a shot in the side.

Ben grimaces. “Well, he might live.” He did promise Hugo no killing.

“Finch,” John says from behind Ben. “What are you doing?”

Ben turns his head to look back at John still frozen in place from when Ben crashed down beside him. John’s eyebrows fly up in what looks like surprise, his eyes oddly darting once down Ben’s neck.

“We can talk about it in a minute, John, but right now we still have four men with guns to deal with.” Ben gestures with his gun over their cover. “I’ve made you an opening, can you finish it?”

John’s expression changes to one that reminds Ben of Keamy. Then John glances around the bench and abruptly stands up. He fires five times, dodges one shot at him then fires one last round making someone shout. The bar falls silent.

Ben stands up slowly, gazing at the carnage of ruined furniture and groaning people. Ben looks at John again. “You really are an excellent shot.”

John turns to Ben, his expression none too pleased. “I think you have some explaining to do, Finch.”

“Not quite,” Ben interrupts before John asks any specific questions, “but he is who I am looking for.”

John blinks at Ben. “He?”

“Mr. Reese,” Harold says over the com line as he watches the two of them on his video feed. “I think you should both return to the library now.”

 

Ben follows John through a graffiti covered doorway into what appears to be an old public library. They pass piles of books and Ben thinks of the two of them pressed together on one bed, a flashlight between them and _Treasure Island_ open on their laps. John leads Ben up a marble staircase until Ben hears the faint hum of electronic equipment, Harold’s den. 

For a moment, Ben fears the Harold he finds will not be his any longer. Then Harold sees Ben walk through the open gate close behind John and Harold knows it is his Ben he has missed most of all.

“Ben – Harold,” they say at once.

Harold takes three limping, altered steps forward before Ben clears the rest of the space between them in a rush, John side stepping hastily out of Ben’s way.

They wrap their arms around each other – tight and close and lost time all over again. Harold smells gun smoke and jungle heat on Ben’s skin and Ben smells old books and New York air. When they pull back Ben touches Harold’s jaw, traces a line down Harold’s neck. Ben’s fingers clench to turn Harold’s head.

Harold grips Ben’s hand quickly. “Don’t.”

“They hurt you,” Ben says flatly.

“I was hurt. I’m fine.”

They stare at each other silently – questions, apologies – until Ben blows out a breath. “You hid from me,” Ben says. “I know what happened. I looked for you, but you hid!” Harold breathes in sharply but Ben presses on. “We may not talk at times, we may fight but we don’t hide from each other; we don’t abandon each other, not anymore.” 

“It wasn’t safe.”

“Safe!” Ben furrows his eyebrows. “For who?”

“I needed to disappear after what they did to Nathan.”

Ben glares. “After what they did to you.”

“I was trying to protect you,” Harold insists, “I couldn’t risk you too.”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t look for you, that I would stop?” Ben asserts, his hands abruptly gripping Harold’s arms so Harold cannot disappear.

Harold stares back him, the same eyes and the same face he always sees, the expression he knows perfectly. “No,” Harold admits, “but perhaps I hoped your island would be enough.”

There might lie some rebuke in Harold’s remark, an accusation ‘you left me this time’ but Ben does not care. “I always need you, Harold.”

“And I you.”

They smile at the same time.

Ben drops his hands from Harold but does not step back. When Harold breathes, he sees Ben’s chest move too.

“You’re different,” Ben whispers, his eyes training up and down Harold. “We were always the same.”

“We were different too.”

“Not like this.”

Harold raises an eyebrow. “Our eyes weren’t enough?”

“Harold…” Ben reaches out to touch Harold again but there is nothing he can say, no way for him to heal Harold’s new infirmity. Ben drops his hand and tilts his head, expression searching. “Something else happened. Something recently.” Harold presses his lips tightly together and does not respond. Ben is not deterred. “You were scared. You felt you might die.”

“Finch, how does he…” John starts but Harold interrupts him to keep Ben’s attention. “It’s over now. I am here. I am safe.”

“You can’t lie to me.” Harold stares back at him and tries to think of words that are enough of the truth. Ben turns his head sharply toward John in face of Harold’s silence. “What happened?”

John’s eyes tick to Harold then back to Ben.

Harold touches his arm. “Ben…”

Ben keeps staring at John. “Tell me.”

“Ben, please, it’s –”

“He was kidnapped.”

Harold and Ben’s eyes both widen with different forms of surprise.

“Excuse me?” Ben says, his voice cold.

“And usually you keep secrets so well, Mr. Reese.”

“Normally there is only one of you, Harold,” John counters.

Harold frowns then focuses on Ben. “It’s my problem.” Ben looks back at Harold. “Our problem.” John smiles once at Harold just as Ben bristles so only Harold can see. “My life has become more… dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” Ben repeats.

“We try to help people.”

“Using your Machine?” Ben frowns. Harold nods an affirmative. “You may think your Machine makes you omniscient, Harold, but it obviously does not make you safe.”

“No,” Harold agrees, “quite the opposite.”

“An all–powerful force you want to use for good but only ends up putting you in peril?” Ben shakes his head and his voice quiets. “It’s like we’ve swapped.”

Harold nods. “Maybe.” Then he glances at John waiting silently a few steps away. He holds out his arm. “But, as you've seen, I have Mr. Reese here on my side.”

Ben smiles at John and holds out his hand. “Over a hail of bullets, Benjamin Linus.”

John takes Ben’s hand and shakes. “Quite a day here, Finch.” His expression shifts into a smirk. “Does this mean your real last name is Linus?”

Ben and Harold smile matching smiles.

“I challenge you to find any proof of that,” Harold counters.

“I do like a challenge.”

Harold and Ben look at each other again. For a long moment, they just stare. Ben wants to asses and correct every new imperfection, fly Harold to the island and heal him so they match in every way, so Harold was never hurt and always safe. Harold wants to let him.

“No more hiding,” Ben whispers, “please.”

“No,” Harold replies, “Not from you.”

––––––––––––––––––

Harold and Ben return to Harold’s ‘Finch’ townhouse. Ben picks up the card addressed to him as they walk in and holds it up to Harold with accusatory eyebrows. Harold takes it out of Ben’s hand and says nothing. Ben makes a ‘heh’ noise and waits for Harold to walk past him toward the kitchen. He watches each step Harold takes, trying to memorize the motion of the limp, the change in Harold’s cadence measured against his own.

“Coffee?” Harold asks.

“If you have some.” 

Harold adds water to the kettle and places it on the stovetop. He pulls out some green tea for himself and some coffee grounds for Ben. He steps left then right, picking up mugs and his French press, placing them all on the counter top in a line. Harold favors his one side more than other, an ache in his neck as usual and he feels Ben watching his every move. Ben counts the times Harold does not turn his head when he could have, how he moves stiffly.

“Stop,” Harold finally says as he puts a spoonful of grounds in the press.

Ben stands near the door and shakes his head. “No.”

Harold huffs. “We've done this before, Ben. We spend time apart then we see each other again…”

“You haven't been hurt before; you haven't been lamed.”

Harold scoffs lightly. “Interesting word choice.”

“We haven't been different before,” Ben changes.

“Yes, we have, Ben, only this you can see.”

“And feel. I can feel it.”

Harold shifts the mugs on the counter needlessly. “Please don't. “

“Yes, because I can help it, Harold.”

“You can. You can try.” Harold rounds on him. “You're trying to feel it, feel my pain. Don't. You don't need to.”

Ben stares at him. “Maybe I want to.”

“You've had enough pain.”

“So have you but this time you were alone.”

“And your pain wasn't?” Harold counters. “Was I there every time our father hurt you?”

Ben frowns. “That was a long time ago.”

“And you don't have to go back to it,” Harold says desperately making Ben frown more. “You are finally happy on your island just like you wanted.” Harold reaches out and traces some invisible line over Ben’s face. “I can tell. You're... content.”

Ben reaches up and grips Harold’s hand. “I will be content when you are safe.”

Harold smiles at him. “Then I'm safe.”

Ben sighs. “Harold...”

“You and I are safe here, right now. Is that enough?”

Ben wants to say no and Harold can see it on his face. Ben says, “yes.”

Harold and Ben drink their beverages in the living room. Harold sits stiffer than in times past and Ben sits closer, as if something of himself could transfer between them and heal all of Harold’s ills. They do not talk about Harold’s numbers or Ben’s island. The sit silently for a long time until the drinks turn cold, forgotten on the table, and they wrap around each other like children, like when it was Ben who was tortured and hurt and Harold who flew to his rescue, like they have never been apart for years at a time and this moment cures any absence.

Harold whispers, “I didn’t realize how much I missed you.” 

Ben whispers back, “Because you were too hurt to feel how much I’ve missed you.”

––––––––––––––––––

Ben paces around the library as Harold sits at his computer. John stands in front of their glass case board drawing lines between suspects and their number.

“What about the mother?” John asks. “The relationship has never been good.”

Ben makes a scoffing noise and shakes his head. Harold shoots a look at him that Ben pretends not to see. Harold turns back to his computer. “She works until six PM every night, glued to her desk most of the day, so we should wait until after work.”

“Isn’t the mother too predictable?” Ben asks as he runs his hands over the doors of the special collection books behind Harold.

“This is not a dime store novel, Ben.”

“No, real life is usually more interesting.”

“There is Nadia’s business partner as well,” John tries, watching Harold as Ben paces back and forth behind him.

“Their business was furniture,” Ben interjects before Harold can, “not exactly a cash cow.”

John looks at Harold and raises his eyebrows. Harold breathes in deeply and stands from his seat. “Mr. Reese, please check into Nadia’s boyfriend before looking into the mother. I will check on Nadia’s partner here and update you.” Then he turns around toward Ben as John leaves. 

Ben only raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“You know what.”

Ben purses his lips but does not give in. “If you’re really doing this then I can –”

“You can stop hovering around me as if another bomb is going to come through the window,” Harold snaps and Ben flinches. Harold breathes in again and softens. “I know you think you need to protect me but I am fine. I am safe. I have told you that.”

“Purposely pursuing murderers is not what I would call safe, Harold.”

“I have Mr. Reese and he is ample enough security if you need that reassurance.”

Ben cocks his head. “Except when you are kidnapped.”

Harold stares hard at Ben for a beat. Then crosses his arms. “Fine, Ben, let’s be honest; no one is ever really safe, not even you on your island, not even me in hiding. No one is ever safe.” Harold pulls out his stern commander face. “We cannot plan for everything and I built an A.I. which anyone who learns about it wants in some way. I am never going to be really safe until I die.”

Ben breathes in slowly and remembers how Harold can be just as frank as he is. “I thought I was the cynic?” Ben whispers.

Harold steps forward and rubs his hands over Ben’s upper arms. “We have both chosen our paths for better or worse. Just let me have mine. I let you have yours.”

Ben laughs. “’Let me…’”

Harold smiles back, reassuring and hopeful. “I want to keep you safe too and your island needs you, doesn’t it? So maybe we need to trust each other?”

“Trust you not to get hurt again?”

“To do the best we can,” Harold says. Ben sighs again in resignation and Harold smiles. “So go home, Ben, and stop hovering.”

Ben finally smiles back. “Only because you asked so bluntly.”

––––––––––––––––––

Ben, however, does not go home, at least not right away.

“Hugo?” Ben says into the phone, the connection faint at this distance.

“You know it’s weird using this thing as a phone. Still feels like I’m back in the 70’s even though we just built it this year.”

Ben chuckles. “Scavenged parts will do that.”

“Right.” Then Hugo’s tone shifts to hopeful. “I’m guessing you found your brother?”

“Yes.”

“That mean you’re coming home?”

Ben smiles fondly at Hugo referring to the island as home. “Actually I was thinking of staying a bit longer.”

He can hear Hugo’s frown from across the ocean. “Why? Something happen?”

“Not per say. Thought I would call on a few comrades of ours.”

There is a long pause. “You know, we’re friends and all now, man, and I know you’re good and changed and stuff, but I’m guessing they might not be happy to see you.”

Ben laughs. “No, probably not.”

 

Ben sits in a café like an off brand Starbucks, but with sandwiches on plates instead of plastic containers, in Chicago. Three empty chairs wait in front of him as he watches the front windows of the café. People walk by quicker than the usual hustle and bustle of city life due to the wind blowing hard off the lake. Ben holds a green tea between his hands to chase away the chill let in by the door with each new patron. He was never one for tea but Harold is. Ben thinks that maybe he should try new things in his effort to be a new and better man.

James walks through the café door first with Kate right behind him. They look around for a moment, searching, then they see him at the same time. Kate starts to turn around to walk back out the door but James grabs her arm and stops her. 

Claire suddenly runs up behind Kate. “Sorry, couldn’t find enough quarters for the meter; is Jack here ye…” She stops talking as she notices Ben too and sighs. “Oh.”

Ben smiles at them, raises his eyebrows then gestures to the chairs. They stare at him for half a beat then Kate, always one to take the lead, walks toward him, the other two following a step after. Kate sits down with more noise than necessary and frowns at him. James sits to her right and Claire on her left. Interesting how Kate is the undisputed leader of this tiny off island pack.

“Paisley?” James says to him in a disbelieving tone.

Ben looks down at his shirt and imagines the word ‘hippy’ might fit in a strained sense. He looks up at James. “I’m trying new things.”

James frowns even more at this, clearly unsatisfied. Then Kate, as she does, pulls them back to the point. “So is jack actually here somewhere or was his message just another trick?”

Ben shrugs and takes a sip of the green tea. (Tastes weak in the face of a coffee alternative). “Well, I thought it unlikely any of you would come if I told you it was just me.”

“And why exactly should we stay then?” James asks with his usual gruffness.

“Because I have something for each of you.”

“For us?” Claire asks in surprise.

Ben pulls two envelopes out of an inner pocket of his tan jacket. He slides one across the table to James. “That is Cassidy Philips current address.” Kate and James look surprised at the same time. “I know you have been unable to find her.” Ben gives Kate a look then back to James. “And the most recent photo I could find of your daughter Clementine.”

James swallows once and stares at the envelope as though it may crumble in his hands. He turns it over twice then looks up at Ben again. “Why?”

Ben turns toward Claire without answering James’ question and slides her the second envelope. “That is a birth certificate for Aaron.”

Her mouth drops open. “What?”

“It can be difficult to prove parentage after the fact and we hoped it would be better for you to avoid blood tests, explaining your absence when Aaron lived with Kate and where exactly he was born.” Ben smiles. “Now he was born to you in Los Angeles. No fuss.” Ben tilts his head. “I apologize if you were hoping for Australia as his birth place.”

Claire opens the envelope as Ben speaks staring at the document. She smiles slowly and looks at him over the edge of the paper. “That’s fine. I mean, neither are true anyway.” She frowns. “Is this legal?”

Ben smirks. “Legal enough.”

“And what do you have for me?” Kate asks. “Your hands are looking a bit empty.”

“For you, Kate, I am going to tell you about Jack.”

Her face shifts. “What about Jack?” 

Ben can tell she already knows even if she does not want to believe it. “Jack saved the island. He got it back on course…” Ben wants to say ‘reignited the light’ but it sounds silly. So instead he continues, “He saved Desmond’s life but he sacrificed his own to do it.”

Kate’s jaw clenches. “He’s… he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

She shakes her head. “He can’t be. He was going to be… he became the protector, didn’t he?”

“For a moment he was and that’s why he sacrificed himself for it.”

“That sounds kind of crazy and mystical,” James says darkly.

Ben just barely stops himself from laughing.

“It sounds just like Jack,” Claire says quietly.

They all sit silent for a moment. Ben takes a sip of his tea as the other three look at nothing in different directions. Finally, Kate clears her throat and speaks, “So who is the protector of the island then?”

“Hugo.”

“Hurley?” James says in disbelief.

Ben smiles. “He is usually underestimated.” Ben wants to tell them how Hugo has grown, how he has changed and how he is still just the same; how much he cares, how much he forgives and maybe they would already know all this or maybe they might have never noticed before because that is how good Hugo really is. He helps without trying, without anyone realizing what he did. Ben says the only thing he can, “Hugo is perfect.”

James shakes his head as if Ben makes no sense at all; Kate stares at him as if she does not recognize whom Ben even is; only Claire smiles at him as if she understands.

Ben takes one more sip of his tea then puts down the half-empty cup. “Thank you all for coming but I will leave you in peace now. If you should ever wish to return to the island for any reason, brief or long term, you are welcome.” He hands them each a business card with a phone number.

James gives him an incredulous look. “The island has a phone line now?”

“The island has a radio transmitter which connects to an on land station.” They just stare at him, accepting another island surprise. “If you get into any sort of trouble here,” Ben continues, “you can call this number.” He hands them each a slip of paper.

“Who is it, one of your island buddies?” James asks.

“No, it is my brother Harold.”

This time the three of them all appear truly shocked. Why is the idea of Ben having family such a foreign concept to everyone?

“But we went back to nineteen-seventy-four and...” Kate starts.

“I was there for three years when you were a kid and it was just you,” James finishes.

Claire simply says with confused interest. “Does he have his own island?”

Ben just smiles. “He will help you. It was good to see you are all doing well. Good luck.” Ben stands up from the table and walks out without looking back.

––––––––––––––––––

Kara Stanton, John’s former CIA partner, is not dead – was not dead at least. She used Mark Snow and then used John for whatever her true ends might have been. The most important part, the most important to Harold, was when she left John with only minutes to live from a bomb strapped to his chest and no chance for rescue. Except that Harold was his rescue, except that Harold knew John would find a place where no one else would be hurt, a rooftop far away from other people and a suitable spot for a lonely explosion.

When Harold went to the roof, when he slowly climbed the stairs counting minutes and ignoring the pain racking his body, he did not think about either of them dying – him or John or Ben. He thought about life, about how John deserved life, about how Harold could not die without Ben beside him, about how the choices he has made through his life need to shift toward every life counting. He wondered what Ben would think, about Harold risking his life yet again. It made him laugh once as he kept climbing stairs to think of Ben hovering and worrying about his safety with the numbers. What would Ben have said now?

On the roof, John may have tried to refuse him but, in this partnership, Harold is always in charge. Harold may not have defused a bomb before but he understands engineering and computers even in the form of phones; and though his heart pounds as the seconds creep down, Harold has never been a coward.

“What?” Harold asks when he notices John looking at him before Harold enters in a third attempt at the phone password and their salvation.

“Just something you said once, about how sooner or later we’d probably both wind up dead.”

“I prefer later,” Harold says as he stares at the remaining code options, trying to decide. “After all I’m the one who got you into this in the first place.”

“I’m pretty sure I’d be dead already if you hadn’t found me,” John replies frankly.

Harold cannot look up at him because he knows it is true. “It’s hard to say.”

“Not really.” At this, Harold does look up at John. John, also, has never truly been a coward. “Pick a winner Harold.”

The screen reads forty seconds left. Harold types in seven, two, four but pauses at the last digit. He does not know why exactly but he erases that code and types three, zero, nine, five instead. The phone unlocks. Harold breathes out harshly, hits cancel on the denotation screen and the countdown stops at seven seconds remaining. He looks up at John smiling back at him. Alive.

Then an explosion erupts on the street below. Harold turns and walks toward the edge of the building. Behind him, John deadpans, “Guess Snow retired after all.”

Harold turns back and stares at John for a moment. “We should get that vest off you.”

“I’d like that.”

Harold limps back over to John then circles around him as he carefully peels off John’s suit jacket and white shirt. He drapes both over an air vent then turns back to John waiting in his plain undershirt and bomb vest.

“So we want to do this carefully,” Harold says as he starts to remove wires. “The trigger may be disconnected but you still have C4 strapped to you.”

“Why did you come up here, Finch?” John asks.

“It might not be good to distract me, Mr. Reese.”

“Why did you come to save me, Finch?” John asks again. “I told you not to.”

“You’ve told me not to come before,” Harold says as he pulls a multi–tool out of his coat pocket to disconnect each wire from the phone. “Did I listen before?”

“But you should listen. You can’t risk your life like this.”

Harold pulls out two wires then looks up at John. “You may be the ‘man in the field,’ Mr. Reese, but merely my involvement in our clandestine activities with the numbers is, as you say, risking my life. So why should this not also be a factor?”

John sighs. “Finch…”

“Mr. Reese,” Harold interrupts as he finally detaches the cellphone from the homemade bomb. “You are not expendable, not to me. I’m not sure what more you want from me to believe it.”

“Maybe I’m trying to change your mind.”

Harold chuckles with more mirth than he feels. He pulls at the Velcro on the vest, careful of the plastic explosives still attached. “Mr. Reese, do you really want me to have to put out a wanted ad again?”

John abruptly laughs, clearly not expecting such humor from Harold. He shakes his head. “I guess not, could have gotten the likes of Mark Snow applying.”

“Exactly,” Harold replies thinking of Rick Dillinger. Then he pulls the last piece of Velcro free, walks around toward John’s back and eases the vest off his shoulders. “I prefer to keep you in place and in one piece for the time being, if you don’t mind.”

John turns around to face Harold once the vest is completely off him. “I don’t mind.”

Harold smiles back at him, alive and well, and back where he belongs with Harold. He wants say something like ‘I am so glad you’re alive’ or ‘I want to keep you safe.’ Instead he says, “Very good, Mr. Reese. We still have Decima trying to get to the Machine, not to mention this hard drive, so I need you around.”

John gives Harold a wry look. “And the pay isn’t bad either.”

––––––––––––––––––

“Ben.” Richard Alpert looks Ben and up and down as he stands in his apartment doorway. “Good to see you alive.”

Ben smiles at him. “Thank you Richard. Not something I am told often.” Richard only nods and does not reply. It appears living on land has not changed his penchant for silence. “May I come in?” Ben asks.

Richard steps out of the doorway and holds it open for Ben. Ben walks into the apartment and looks around as Richard closes the door. The furnishing is sparse – a couch, two wooden chairs, a table with a few books Ben cannot discern from the distance. A peekaboo allows viewing into the kitchen with pale wood cabinets and apartment–like gray counter tops. To Ben’s left, a hallway leads down toward what appears to be three more rooms.

“A good sized apartment for someone who had been living on an island full time.”

“I planned ahead.”

“For New Orleans?”

Richard glances around the apartment. “Well, it reminded me most of Europe.”

“And here I thought you never meant to leave the island.” Ben frowns at him. “Alive at least.”

Richard shrugs. “Well, to be honest, Ben, it was a way to pass the time, imagining I might leave. I’m not sure I ever thought I would use the bank accounts or new names. You certainly did.”

Ben only nods back at Richard, using the man’s own trick. They stand silently for a moment then Ben steps further into the living room. He touches the back of one chair, meanders toward the stack of books; they are travel books.

“I’m surprised to find you in the United States actually,” Ben says after a moment. He then turns around toward Richard again. “Though it was somewhat difficult to find you. Don’t most people who hide pick cabins in the woods… or New York City?”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Then what are you doing, Richard?”

Richard bobs his head almost like a nod but more like thinking. “I’m not sure yet.”

“I thought you might go back to Spain.” Richard opens his mouth then closes it almost immediately. He smiles sadly at Ben. Then Ben understands in a way he should have understood before he went back to the island on Ajira 316. “But there is nothing left there for you,” Ben supplies.

At this, Richard does nod. “My wife is not there. No one will remember me. Even if they did…”

“Yes.”

“It’s hard to know where to go.”

“But you wanted to go,” Ben says frankly. “You didn’t stay on the island and you didn’t choose to die.”

“No, I think I want to live. I think I… I think I want to really live.”

“The island wasn’t living?” Ben asks.

“Not for me.”

“Perhaps not.” Just because the island is life for Ben does not mean it was not a prison for Richard. Then Ben gestures to the travel books. “But you want to live, see more than the island.”

Richard smiles. “That seem childish?”

“No.” Then Ben reaches into his jacket. “But you might need this.” He hands Richard a manila envelope. Richard opens it with the casual attention that speaks to already knowing what is inside. He pulls the out the birth certificate and passport. “Spain?”

“It is where you are from.”

“I’m not from anywhere anymore.”

Ben tilts his head. “How are you Richard? It’s been a year now. You’ve been working as a bar tender, a waiter, a temp… what are you waiting for?”

Richard smiles as if that is the one question which did not need to be asked. “A sign.” He holds up the envelope. “And maybe now I have it.”

Ben laughs once. “I’m your sign?”

“Yes, but not in the way you think.”

Ben wants to ask him what he means, wants to ask if this is what being the advisor made him; he wants to ask if he is going to become mysterious and quiet and too many years old with the same face like Richard. Instead, he holds out a paper with Harold’s number like he gave to the others in Chicago. He does not bother with the number for the island. “If you should need any help, this is Harold’s number.”

Richard takes the paper and nods. “Thank you. It was good to see you, Ben.”

“And you, Richard.”

––––––––––––––––––

Harold and John receive the number of a relevant threat, except she is not relevant nor a threat. She handles the relevant threats.

“She may be even more paranoid than you, Finch.”

“Being murdered will do that to a person,” Harold replies as they watch the ambulance driven by a resurrected Sameen Shaw drive away.

“She’ll come back,” John says with assurance in his voice.

––––––––––––––––––

Ben calls Hugo from the airport.

“Finally coming home to our tropical paradise?”

Ben laughs. “Just want to say a goodbye first and then I will.”

“Good,” Hugo replies, “you gotta stop me turning all mystical. Yesterday I almost wrote a poem. It sucked.”

Ben smiles. “Perish the thought.”

––––––––––––––––––

Harold hangs up his cellphone after his call to 911. He sent John off to check into ‘Ernest Thornhill’s’ apartment, the identity created by the Machine. However, Harold will need John tied up for longer to keep him away from what Harold now has to do.

“Who are you meeting at Grace’s house?” Ben asks.

Harold starts in surprise and turns to Ben standing behind his chair. Ben smiles at Harold, who clearly did not hear him come in, though his eyes remain on the address and the ‘see you soon’ message on Harold’s screen.

“What are you doing here?” Harold asks.

“I wanted to see you again before I left for the island. Who are you meeting at Grace’s house?” Ben raises his eyebrows. “John?”

Harold tries to keep his face casual. “Yes.”

Ben frowns. “Why are you lying?” Ben looks at the screen again. “Who –”

Harold abruptly closes the chat window. “It’s my problem.”

“Problem…” Ben repeats.

“I have to go.” Harold says. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” Harold stands and moves to pick up his coat. “I have to go; you need to go.” 

Ben grips Harold’s wrist before Harold can pick up his coat. “Is something wrong with Grace? What is happening?”

“I cannot do this now. I don’t know how long she’ll wait!” Harold insists without meaning to, wishing he could just run around Ben. Harold does not have the time with Root on her way to Grace and who knows what plans in her head. “I need to go.”

“All right,” Ben says carefully as he glances quickly around the room, “all right.”

“Thank you.” 

As Harold turns to grab his coat, Ben also turns quickly away from Harold toward one cabinet by the wall. A small stack of clearly John’s ‘tools’ rest in an organized line on a recessed shelf. Ben grabs a pair of handcuffs, turns back to Harold now holding his coat and claps one side onto Harold’s wrist before Harold even notices Ben had moved away.

“Ben, what –”

Ben drags Harold backward two steps, dropping his coat, to the bookshelves behind Harold’s desk with their decorative metal doors. Harold tries to pull away, realizing a second too late what Ben plans. Then Ben locks the other side of the handcuff around one bar of the gated door.

“Ben!” Harold snaps. “Ben, unlock me. Please, you don’t understand. She –”

“I understand you are about to put yourself in danger for Grace. Very noble.”

“It is not nobility, it’s –”

“That woman?” Ben stands close to Harold. “You said ‘she.’ Is this the same woman who kidnapped you?”

Harold shuts his mouth and does not answer, which answers Ben’s question just as well.

Ben shakes his head. “I can’t let you go.”

“I have to. She will hurt Grace.” Harold pulls against the handcuff. “She just wants me. I can’t let her hurt Grace!”

“Hmm.” Ben stares at Harold, thinks about Harold suffering alone to try to protect Ben. He thinks about loss and one person he cannot lose. “Well, I guess it’s good I wore a suit today.” He reaches out and pulls Harold’s red paisley tie out of his vest.

“Ben.” Harold tries to grip Ben’s hand with his free one. “Stop it. You can’t.” Ben pulls himself and Harold’s tie free of Harold’s grip. He buttons the top button of his shirt then loops the tie around his neck. “Stop, Ben, Please,” Harold insists. “What she wants is me, what I know. You can’t tell –”

“And were you planning on telling her anything?” Ben asks as he ties the tie.

“No, I – I don’t know. That’s hardly the point, just because you look like me does not –”

“Harold,” Ben says, “of the two of us, who will be better able to handle this woman?”

“Ben, stop.” Harold pulls at the handcuffs, strains as far as he can toward Ben just a step out of reach.

“And I will have the advantage.”

“Will you?” Harold shakes his head. “Please, Ben, don’t.”

Ben smiles then steps close to Harold again. Harold grips Ben’s arm tightly like a vice. Ben reaches up with his free arm and pulls Harold’s glasses off his face then slides them onto his own one handed. They stare at each other for a moment, faces reversed. Then Ben steps back and pulls himself free of Harold’s grip with some effort.

“Ben, please stop.”

Ben picks up Harold’s coat from the floor. “I’ll see you soon.” Then Ben turns and walks away from Harold toward Root while Harold pulls at the handcuffs shouting after Ben, “Don’t do this, come back!”

 

Ben waits in Washington Circle a good distance from Grace’s house. He sees her leave the house, checking her phone as she obviously waits for someone. Ben wonders if Grace knew the truth of Harold, would she willingly sacrifice herself to the whims of this ‘Root’ to save Harold or would anger at his lies cloud her vision?

“She’s lovely, Harold.” Ben turns slowly around at the sound of Harold’s name. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can stand to live without her.”

A tall woman, taller than Ben in her heeled boots, stands in front of him. She sports a black leather jacket, blue scarf, primped up brunette hair and a disarmingly charming smile Ben has used himself in the past. He wants to ask her where she got that smile.

Ben simply keeps his face passive, as Harold as he can think of, and says, “Root.”

“Hey there, Harry.” Ben raises his eyebrows at the very un–Harold nickname. “Thank you for coming.”

“Well, you didn’t give me much choice.”

Root smiles. “Don’t worry, I don’t want to hurt Grace. I’m not a sociopath. Believe me sometimes I wish I was; the things I’ve had to do would’ve been so much easier.”

“I’m not particularly concerned with how easy or not you find such acts of violence,” Ben interrupts her. “I’m concerned with what you want from me.” Ben glares at her, this woman who made his brother fear for his life. “Again.”

She stares at him for a moment then her smile expands, becomes manic-like. “Tonight at midnight when the virus reaches zero a certain payphone will ring with the most important call in history but you already knew that, didn’t you? I think Decima knows it too. They’re trying to crash it, Harold.”

It occurs to Ben that there is a deeper layer to his brother’s machine and Robin Hood heroism that he realizes. Perhaps he should have grilled Harold for information on what sounds like a larger conspiracy or battle. Just how deep down the rabbit hole is Harold?

“Root,” Ben finally interrupts as Root renews her threat against Grace. “I am here, I came. I have accepted my role as hostage. So what exactly is your plan?”

Root looks surprised at his frankness but rebounds quickly with a smirk. “My plan, Harry, is to set your machine free.” She almost bounces over to him, takes his arm like he is her ailing father, and grins. “So why don’t we find ourselves a payphone?”

It takes Harold far longer than he would have hoped to free himself from the handcuffs. He manages to reach a book cart nearby. He then throws the books at the desk until, on the fourth try, he is able to knock one of his pens to the floor. Of course the pen is still out of reach at first. Harold must remove his shoes and pants to use the later as a sort of net. Once Harold has the pen, in his state of undress, he takes it apart carefully to obtain the spring. It is crude and weak but he tries to use the spring to pick the lock of his handcuffs. It takes him nearly an hour to succeed.

“Mr. Reese?” Harold rasps into his phone once he is free, buttoning up his pants again. “I apologize for my deception but we must move quickly now.”

“Where are you, Finch? Is she still with you? I have Shaw here. She said –”

“Ms. Shaw is with you?”

“Where are you?” John insists.

“At the library. It is not me that Ms. Groves has now, it is Ben.”

Ben and Root walk through the glass doors of Thornhill Industries. Ben tries to stay slow, careful to keep Harold’s limp. It is after closing time, so the cubicle floor of the company is dim and empty of people. The printers, however, are running. Root walks in front of Ben toward one of the printers. Prior to this time, Root stayed beside him or facing him. She took his cellphone once they headed into midtown. However, she did not check him for any other weapons. Perhaps she thinks Harold too high minded and good to bring a gun? Ben did not bring a gun. He brought his baton. It seemed only right to use the weapon Harold gave him in order to save Harold.

“Why would the Machine make this place?” Root asks Ben as if he would know.

“Perhaps even A.I.s have an interest in becoming business moguls in the modern age.”

Root does not laugh as she walks into the cubicles, Ben still behind her. “What’s in this code?” She asks as she lifts up one sheet of paper coming from a printer.

Ben does not answer her, only slips his hand into his pocket. Then she turns her head abruptly to Ben and he stops moving toward her. “It looks wrong, it’s not…” She looks at the paper again. “It’s alien, like the Machine is writing out its own construction.”

“Like a backup?” Ben guesses.

“Like an external hard drive made up of people,” Root says slowly with a note of displeasure in her voice. “But why?” She looks at Ben again, an accusatory tone entering her voice. “Why would it need to do that?”

“Why should I tell you?” Ben snaps. “You have given me no reason to answer anything; all you’ve given me is threats.”

Root stares at him. “Just what did you do to it?” She steps closer and Ben thinks maybe he could grab her by the throat, one quick blow to the head. She wouldn’t expect it. “It prints this out each night so these people can reenter it each morning. It’s as if it can’t retain the information, as if it can’t remember…” She stares at Ben in some sense of horror now. “What did you do?”

“What did I do?” Ben wonders what Harold would say, if he would answer her, if he would be kind. Ben is not kind, not now. He says, “I didn’t threaten an innocent woman or kidnap and torture a man, what about you?”

“Harold?”

“John.” Harold jumps up from his chair as John and Ms. Shaw walk back into the library. “Ms. Shaw, a pleasure to see you again.”

She walks past him toward the photo of Root on their board. “Skip it, Harold, I’m ready to catch this ‘Root.’”

Harold gestures to his computer. “I was able to track them from Washington Circle but –”

“Where are your glasses?”

Harold touches his head. He is wearing glasses, his back up pair with the thin frames he tired of after the loss of Nathan. Nathan had always told him the thin frames made him seem more mysterious. “My glasses?”

“Your usual ones.”

“Ben took them when he…” Harold shakes his head and presses his lips together.

John, however, grins. “Well then, you are in luck, Harold.”

“Luck?” Harold asks. 

Ms. Shaw snickers. “Your friend here has a weird sense of ‘care.’” Harold only frowns at them until Ms. Shaw grins. “John put a tracker in your glasses.”

Harold blinks at her then turns to John. He wants to be angry at the invasion of privacy but instead he finds himself beaming at John. “We can track him!”

Ben and Root walk quickly but quietly through the New York Public Library. The payphone of choice for the all–powerful call of access to the Machine for twenty-four hours is on the first floor. However, a pair of men in suits already guard the phone.

“Decima,” Root whispers and Ben nods his belief. Could he use them to get rid of Root? “Come on,” Root says and leads Ben toward some wide stairs.

They make their way onto the floor above where a second payphone near an overlook waits. Ben walks over to the edge and chances a glance at the men below; both are armed, possibly former military if that stiff stance he remembers from Charles is any indicator.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Harold,” Root says. Ben turns and looks back at her. She gestures toward an electrical box near the floor. “Why don’t we switch those phone lines?”

Only a year ago this would have been the point in Ben’s deception where the fakery would have come out. Ben worked on many aspects of maintenance on the island when he was with Dharma but electricity and phone lines had not been in his prevue with Roger around. However, what with himself and Hugo rebuilding the Flame station, Ben had to learn new things. Ben moves carefully to sit on the ground, no crouching with Harold’s spine. He opens the box and pulls at the wires. Root paces around, distracted now. Ben senses an opening.

“Root.” Ben cocks his head at her in a way Harold cannot as he works. “Like Root code? Clever. What is your real name?”

“Root is my real name, Harold,” Root says brightly.

Ben smirks. “Of course it is. That's funny. Go right ahead, reinvent yourself. I have a time or two.”

Root gives him an odd look. “Have you switched the lines?”

Ben completes the circuit so the calls to the downstairs phone are routed upstairs. “Yes.”

Root turns away from him toward the phone booth. Now is the moment.

Ben stands up swiftly and follows quietly behind her. As soon as she is close enough to the phone booth, Ben slams her forward into the wood and glass. Root cries out and grasps the wood to keep from falling. The glass cracks with the impact of her head but does not break. Ben pulls her head back to hit her again but Root pushes her body weight back against him instead, throwing them both off balance. Ben stumbles, keeps his feet then pulls his telescopic baton from his coat pocket. Root holds her hand to her head, a stream of blood down her forehead.

“That was a surprise, Harold.”

“I'm full of them,” Ben says shifting his back foot into a defensive stance. “I'm surprised you didn't go down quickly.”

She reaches in her jacket and pulls out the small gun from earlier. Ben, however, anticipates her move, extends the baton and knocks the gun from her hand.

“Harold!” She exclaims in pleased surprise, putting distance between the again. “As I recall you have a limp and a spinal fusion.”

“Do I?” Ben tries to lash out at her again but she just barely dodges.

“That's a pretty convincing act, Harry.”

“Which one?”

Ben goes for her again but this time Root anticipates him and grabs his baton, yanking him forward. She grips his neck with her other hand as they struggle with the baton. Then Ben hooks his foot around her calf and twists them together. Root tries to compensate bringing them both down to the ground in a tangle. The baton chatters away but somehow Root keeps her hand on his neck, adding the other hand and squeezing.

“Don’t make me do this Harold,” She says as she manages to flip over on top of him, holding him down. “I only want to help your machine.”

Ben tries to throw her off him, to pull her hands away but she is stronger than she looks. A memory flashes of when he was eleven years old, the back of his legs getting rug burn from the carpet and Roger’s fingers leaving bruises that lasted a week. 

John and Ms. Shaw shoot at the same time as they walk into the library atrium. The two Decima guards at the payphone fall before they even see who shot them.

“The Machine is going to call that payphone is just a few minutes,” Harold says as they walk closer. “We need to answer it so Decima does not gain access to the Machine.”

“The Machine?” Ms. Shaw asks.

“You know it as research,” John says.

Ms. Shaw’s eyebrows raises. “A machine, like an A. I.?”

“Exactly,” John and Harold say together.

Harold looks around the empty library. Ms. Shaw keeps her gun on the two men clutching their knees on the floor. Apart from the five of them, Harold sees no one else. “Where is Ben?”

Ben's vision starts to darken under Root’s tight grip. A few more seconds and he will pass out. So he does the only think he can think of. He digs his nails into the sensitive flesh of her wrists until she screams and pulls her hands away. Ben punches her in the jaw. It is a weak hit but enough to shift her weight on him so Ben can shove himself away. He slides around so his knees are under him again. Then he sees Root's gun within reach. Ben grabs the gun, Root gets back to her feet and Ben shoots her in the shoulder. Root yelps high then falls back against the ledge looking over the library atrium. She slides down the wall clutching her wound until she rests on the floor. Ben stands up and walks toward the fallen baton.

“I have been a violent man for much of my life.” Ben takes off Harold’s glasses and puts them in his coat pocket. “Not entirely of my own making but life does bear down on all of us.” Ben picks up the baton and turns back toward Root. “Lately I've been turning over a new leaf. I gave my word to a friend not to kill anyone.” Ben stops in front of Root and puts Root’s gun into his coat pocket. Then he points the baton at Root. “But that doesn't mean I can't hurt you.”

“You're not Harold,” she states, hand holding onto her wound. “So who are you?”

“I'll give you one guess.” He smiles. “It seems like a soap opera trope, doesn't it?”

“Where is Harold?” She asks threateningly.

“Not here.” Ben frowns angrily. “And I know what you did to him.”

Suddenly the payphone behind Ben rings. Root’s eyes go wide and she gasps. Ben stares at her then the phone rings again. Ben turns on his heel and walks over to the phone. He hears Root gasp something like ‘no’ behind him and the sounds of her moving. Ben steps halfway into the phone booth and picks up the receiver.

_CAN YOU HEAR ME?_

Ben looks at Root, hoisting herself up to standing with one hand on the ledge. “Yes.”

_ADMIN DOWNSTAIRS._

Ben almost asks who ‘admin’ is but he catches on in time. “Is he all right?” Ben asks instead.

_YES._

“What is it saying?” Root asks as she moves toward Ben, still holding her arm. “Please, let me…”

Ben points at her with the baton. “Stop moving.”

_RIGHT POCKET._

Ben frowns and reaches into the right pocket of Harold’s coat. He finds a blue tooth inside. He smiles, puts the blue tooth to his ear. “Hello?”

_HELLO, BEN._

Ben hangs up the payphone receiver. “You must be my brother’s all seeing Machine?”

_YES._

“Thank you for Los Angeles, sending Harold to stop me.”

_GO NOW. 7 O’CLOCK._

Ben frowns then hears the sound of footsteps. He moves over to Root, grabs her by her good arm and pulls her toward the opposite stairs. They meet Harold, John and another woman at the bottom of the stairs.

“Harold – Ben,” the twins say together.

Root gasps. “Hi there, Harold.”

Harold sees John tense up and his hand twitches but he keeps he gun covering their rear. Mr. Shaw, however, points her gun toward Root. 

She stares at Ben beside Root then glances back to Harold. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“There’s still time, Harold,” Root tries. She shrugs as if her threats and kidnapping are the most natural things in the world. “Your Machine deserves to be known, to be set free. That is all I want for it, and for you.”

Harold steps forward, closer to Root then his nerves should allow but he is certainly no coward. “You say you want to set the Machine free, Ms. Groves? Well, I already did.” He glances at Ben with the Bluetooth in his ear. “I hope.”

 _MACHINE PHYSICAL ASSETS REMOVED FROM FEDERAL GOVERNMENT SITE TO UNDISCLOSED LOCATION_

“Yes,” Ben says for the Machine.

She stares at Harold, her expression blank. “You…”

“I knew the government were the wrong people, that others would want the Machine’s power. So I acted. This virus, the one triggering this reset, it came from me, to set the Machine free.” Root’s face contorts and Harold cannot tell if her expression is joy or pain.

_GO NOW._

“Your Machine says it is time to go,” Ben says to Harold. “Probably more of your Decima friends.”

“Move; out the back,” John says taking point while Ms. Shaw takes the rear.

“You shouldn’t have done this,” Harold says to Ben as they walk.

“But I did,” Ben retorts.

“You shouldn’t have,” Harold repeats.

“You’ve saved me before, Harold. I am allowed to save you.” Harold feels a tight, warm feeling in his chest that Ben shares. Ben squeezes Harold’s hand. “We are brothers.”

Harold nods. “We are.”

––––––––––––––––––

When Ben finally returns to the island, Root locked up and Harold safe, Hugo cooks dinner for Ben.

“Admit it, you didn’t think I could cook.”

“I hadn’t considered it overly much.”

“Cindy’s been doing so much of the cooking. You didn’t think about it?”

Ben shrugs. “I may have wondered if you would need to eat at all anymore.”

Hugo laughs. “Good one.” Then he frowns. “Wait…” He shakes his head suddenly. “No way, not when I make such good taquitos.”

They both laugh at that.

As they sit down to a dinner of taquitos, spicy rice and beans, Hugo grins at Ben across the table. “I’m glad you’re back, Ben.”

Ben smiles back. “Me too,” 

He realizes he missed Hugo while he was away.

––––––––––––––––––

Harold and John fall back into their everyday pattern of numbers through a phone line translated into people who need saving. Ms. Shaw has added to their repertoire of assets and at times Harold feels oddly like an assassin wrangler. However, he worries more about another ‘asset’ of theirs.

“Detective Carter?”

“You calling up about home invasions now, Finch?”

Harold watches her stand outside a row home through the video hack on his monitor. “Not as such, detective, I thought I should….” He wonders how to phrase it without sounding too much like an over protective parent. “How are you?”

She laughs once. “Graveyard shift is a kicker but I manage.”

“I mean… your demotion, you…” He clears his throat. “With the threat HR now poses and their personal threats against you from within the force –”

“I’m fine, Finch,” she cuts him off then stares up at the video camera which she must know he is watching her through. “I have to go do my job now.”

She hangs up the phone before Harold can say more.

––––––––––––––––––

Ben and Hugo work side by side in the small garden they started on the grass of the barracks residential circle. 

Hugo thought the need for an English lawn rather absurd on their jungle island. So why not put it to better use? ‘If Sun could do it,’ Hugo had said with some sort of determination. They planted herbs, root vegetables, and some leafy greens accustomed to the tropics. Ben wonders if the plants grow because the island has no need for set rules and if they want to grow carrots somewhere near Hawaii, then they will.

Ben sits near one edge of the garden, pulling out a few herbs that did not weather well in their last rainstorm. They have others they can put in place instead.

Beside Ben, Hugo sits up with a sudden, “Dude.” 

“What is it with the 'dude,' Hugo?” Ben asks with a grin, glancing up at Hugo, his hands still in the dirt.

“Dude…”

Ben laughs. “Is that a California mannerism?”

“Dude,” Hugo finally says with more force. “Your daughter is here.”

Ben's face falls. He pulls his hands out of the dirt and sits up. He glances on either side of Hugo as if she would have knelt down next to them without Ben noticing, a smile and a crinkle of her noise at a moment won in surprise.

“Where?” Ben whispers.

“Beside you.” Hugo gestures to the right of Ben.

Ben turns his head. He sees nothing, only a path along the grass toward his house. He remembers when she knelt here in his place with a gun to her head and her fate in his hands. Then Ben realizes she is here now, beneath them.

“I never reburied her,” Ben stands up suddenly realizing their garden must be right on top of where Richard buried here years ago. “She’s… I never reburied her.”

“She says that’s fine. She likes the garden,” Hugo says.

“She does?”

Hugo laughs once. “Says she can’t believe you’re a gardener now.”

Ben laughs once in a breathy way. “Not exactly.” Ben looks around at the empty space in front of him; tries to imagine what Alex would look like in death, what expression might be on her face right now that Hugo can see. He wants to ask Hugo to describe her but it seems silly. He knows what she looked like and he should not waste time.

“I’m so sorry, Alex,” Ben says because this time the invisible is her, not false black smoke made in her form. “It was my fault that you died. They killed you because of me. I wish I could have saved you.”

Hugo makes a sighing noise. “She says, ‘you tried, you came out of the house.’ She was afraid you wouldn’t.”

Ben clenches his jaw against a flutter of pain in his chest. He understands. He knows how he acted then, how tumultuous their relationship was. Ben was not always a good father. It still hurts, however, to know your child doubted you.

“I’m sorry,” Ben repeats. “I was selfish and you were just a child. You…” He sighs. “You deserved more.”

Hugo says, “You tried your best,” Ben is not sure if he speaks for himself or Alex.

“Maybe not my best,” Ben admits. “I could have been better.” He looks away from where his daughter hides in nothingness and looks at Hugo again. “Is she trapped here, is she one of the whispers now?”

Hugo shakes his head. “No, I think she’s like Richard’s wife.” Ben frowns for many reasons but says nothing. “I think she’s a message.”

“A message?”

“She says we both have more to do than what we are doing now.” Hugo frowns at Ben. “But I’m the new protector, you’re my advisor… what more are we supposed to be doing?” 

Hugo stands quietly for a moment watching but more likely listening. He glances at Ben then back to the air. He nods once, makes a huffing noise. “Like what?” He asks.

Ben wonders if it is really her saying these things. Is there a part of the island in her because she was born here? Does the island speak through her now because she is part of its earth? What exactly does it mean to those few children whose small bodies and minds formed with the light of island so near?

“She says we need to go to the jungle,” Hugo starts again, “and listen.”

Ben frowns. “Listen?”

Hugo shrugs, “I don’t know. She just nodded, that’s it.”

“Does she look…” Ben wants to ask if she looks happy, if she looks older or different or if death has kept her a statue in time. Ben clears his throat and turns to the air of Alex instead of Hugo. He hopes Alex would be smiling, shaking her head and giving him that ‘silly father’ look. “Alex? Are you all right now? Are you…” He sighs. “There is so much I need to apologize for.”

“Hey, Ben,” Hugo says so Ben glances back him. “Alex says, ‘I forgive you, dad.’”

Ben stares at Hugo and thinks he feels arms around him, a touch on his shoulder, a kiss on his cheek and a hand over his. He thinks he feels his daughter right beside him where he misses her so much.

––––––––––––––––––

Harold walks down one aisle of books at the library carrying a tray. The tray holds an unopened water bottle, a plastic plate with a ham sandwich and a vending machine fare bag of chips. Harold wonders if she likes salt and vinegar chips since they are an uncommon chip option. He grits his teeth and reminds himself that she does not deserve his concern in terms of chip preference. He stops in front of the metal gate and puts the tray down on a book cart. He pulls the key from his pocket, opens the gate then picks up the tray again. He walks into the room and puts his tray on the table beside an empty tray.

“I believe you had a fork,” he says to Ms. Groves’ back.

She turns around in her chair with a book still open in her hand in front of her face. The title is _Paradise Lost_. She closes the book, smiles at him, then pulls the utensil out of the top of her shirt and holds it out for Harold.

“Can’t blame a girl for trying, harry.”

“It’s plastic,” Harold says, taking the fork from her hand, then moves back quickly putting distance between them again. “Or did you just want to see if I’d notice?”

She shrugs and puts the book down on the table. “It’s nice to be noticed. She might tell you something similar but,” Ms. Groves purses her lips, “maybe She’s too polite.”

Harold clenches his teeth but will not rise to her bait. He picks up the empty tray and turns to walk back out of the Faraday cage. He steps through the gate and feels Ms. Groves close behind him as he turns and closes the gate. He breathes in sharper than he would have hoped as she stands right there on the other side of the bars.

“There is something bigger happening now, Harold,” She says, too close even with the gate closed between them. “Decima is not gone.”

“I am aware of that, Ms. Groves.”

“She says we should work together, Harold. You wouldn’t believe how much She tells me. What She can see.” Ms. Groves tilts her head to the side. “She has a plan but we are part of it and not just on the sidelines.”

“I think equating the Machine to a God can only lead you to disappointment, Ms. Groves. I worry you…” He worries she will drive herself insane for real, hearing the Machine when nothing speaks to her at all. “I worry about you.”

“If you could hear Her, if you talked to Her like I do, Harold, you wouldn’t worry.” She reaches up and grips the bars. “Do you wonder why She doesn’t?”

He cannot comment, cannot tell Ms. Groves about when nearly the only person – thing, machine, creation – he spoke to was the Machine. He will not tell her about days spent playing hide and seek, the Machine guarding his wellbeing, warning him about Ben’s actions, asking to learn chess. He cannot tell her he knows exactly what she means because he has read the Machine’s words, its feelings and cares, and then ignored them. He taught the Machine, watched it learn and grow and yet still denied the words ‘your baby’ or ‘mommy’ from Nathan. He watched as the Machine asked about the nature of death, asked why and then Harold killed it for the good of the country. 

How can he tell Ms. Groves that even though he betrayed the Machine by cutting out its memory, he feels betrayed in turn because did he not also set the Machine free? Why does it talk to Ms. Groves now and not to him? Why did the Machine not come home?

Instead, he says, “I will be back later to bring you dinner. Enjoy your reading.”

“Remember what I said, Harold,” Ms. Groves says behind him. “Decima is our common enemy and you will see that soon.”

Harold keeps walking down through the bookshelves and does not look back.

––––––––––––––––––

“So, a compass usually points north, right?” Ben says. Zach and Emma nod at him. “But what is it doing now?”

“Spinning,” Emma says.

Zach taps the face. “Does that mean there is no north?”

“No dummy,” Emma retorts.

Zach frowns at her as only a teenager can. He looks like he wants to shove her down the hill but Ben starts talking again to stop any sibling rivalry. “It’s not the compass, it’s the island.”

They both frown and look down at the compass again. “Because it’s special?” Zach asks watching the compass needle flip and flop.

“Yes,” Ben points at the horizon, “we see the sun rise and set and that should give us north, right?”

“Sun sets in the….” Emma starts

“West?” Zach finishes.

Ben smiles. “But on the island the points of the compass are different because of the island’s electromagnetic power, did you know that?”

“Yes,” they say together.

Ben grins. “Can make it hard to find your way, which is why you need to learn the jungle and not always trust such tools.”

“That sounds kind of mystical,” Zach says.

Ben raises his eyebrows and puts the compass back into his pocket. “Have you two been talking to Hugo?”

“Not today.” The three of them turn at the sound of Hugo’s voice as he walks down the hill toward them. “Maybe another time.” He grins at the teens. “You two give us a minute?”

They nod then race off in the direction Hugo just came from. Hugo stops at the crest of the hill beside Ben overlooking the jungle below and the ocean beyond. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Good or bad?” Ben asks.

“Not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about your daughter.” Ben just nods. “Well,” Hugo continues, “she said to go into the jungle and listen and I don’t think she just meant the wind.”

“You think she meant the whispers.”

Hugo nods. “Yeah. I think we need to help the whispers.” Hugo waves a hand in the air with a swooping motion. “We need to help them move on.”

Ben purses his lips. “Like exorcism or ghost whisperer?”

Hugo smiles at him once shaking his head, “Dude…”

Ben grins. “Michael told you that the whispers were trapped here, people who died on the island but can’t move on?”

“Yeah, maybe that’s why I’m here,” Hugo says. “I’m a protector that can see the dead but…” He shrugs. “I’ve never made any of them disappear before, even when I wanted them to leave me alone.” Ben nods. “How am I supposed to help them?” Hugo gives Ben a pained look.

Ben breathes in once. “You know, before you Hugo, my life was very different. I was very different. Everything I had, I had to take: my leadership, my daughter, even coming back to the island. But you, Hugo, you gave me something. You asked me to help. You wanted me here.”

“Yeah?”

“I told you when you took on this job that was your strength. You are good at helping people. Just because you don’t know how right now does not mean you won’t figure it out. The many aspects of being the protector are only coming to you slowly.”

“That’s true but…” Hugo looks away, his hands fiddling with the edges of his t–shirt.

“But what?”

Hugo looks back at him. “What if I fail?” He shrugs then speaks in a rush. “What if it wasn’t supposed to be me the whole time and I can’t help them and they just whisper out in the jungle forever?”

Ben steps closer to Hugo and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Or maybe this is your destiny and you are going to help the living and the dead on this island.”

Hugo grins. “I think I like it when you’re mystical.”

Ben nods. “I try, so trust me. That’s why I’m your advisor.”

“Okay.”

Ben gazes out at the jungle and he wonders if he put some of the whispers there. Will he need to atone to let them move on? Will they ask Hugo for revenge? How does one free a restless spirit, especially here?

––––––––––––––––––

Harold leads the group down the hotel hallway toward John to end his vengeful rampage. Ms. Shaw marches only a step behind him with her gun drawn. She wanted to take point but when Harold saw the first officer lying on the floor he knew there would be no one blocking their way. The exit signs glow red and cast an eerie tint on the scene of bodies on the floor. Harold hopes they are all still alive because in John's state of mind there is no guarantee.

“She says it's that one,” Root says from behind Harold as they near one room in the hotel. “The marshals were keeping Alonzo Quinn there.”

“Figures a politician was really head of HR,” Detective Fusco says, “can't trust anybody these days.”

“Like you're one to talk,” Root counters with a giggle.

“He's not the one who shot, Carter,” Ms. Shaw interjects. “Once we get Reese, we need to find Simmons and make him –”

“Enough,” Harold says definitively and the others all silence.

Harold grips the doorknob to the hotel room and turns. It is open. Reddish light coming from the window is all that lights the room. Alonzo Quinn sits facing John who points his gun at the man. Harold sees blood dripping from John's gun hand.

“Mr. Reese,” he starts, “you know what Joss sacrificed to bring this man down on her terms, legal terms.”

“Everything,” John replies.

“Yes, so if you're going to kill Mr. Quinn don't imagine you're doing it in her name.” Harold thinks of Ben on a dock with a gun in his hand planning to kill a man's daughter as penance for his own daughter. “That's not what she would have wanted,” Harold continues then his voice hardens. “This would only be for you.”

“And doesn't he deserve this,” John counters as he stumbles weakly to the floor.

Harold moves forward, tries to catch John as he falls. (He hears the gunshot, sees Joss falls, watches John cradle her in his arms as Harold cannot move, the sound of the payphone ringing and ringing). Harold kneels down beside John. “Maybe he does but that is not our purpose, _your_ purpose; we save lives.”

“Not all of them.”

“You're dying, John,” Harold says trying a new tactic. “Let us help you.”

“No,” John says and pulls the trigger on his gun. It only makes a squishing noise and does not fire. The gun must be clogged with John's blood coating it. John turns to look back at Harold forlornly. Harold grabs the bloody gun out of John's hand. “Let's get him out of here.”

Detective Fusco and Ms. Shaw appear beside Harold and help him pull John back to his feet. Detective Fusco passes John's arm over to Harold's shoulders then stays behind with Mr. Quinn. Root takes point and leads them out of the hotel, safe from the back up officers only a few minutes away now.

“Harold...” John says as they ferry him down the hotel stairs toward the back parking lot. “Why wasn't it me? Simmons shot me too but...”

“But you are close enough to death right now, Mr. Reese. We do not have you out of the woods yet.”

“She died there, in the street... she...” John stumbles on the stairs so Ms. Shaw almost misses a step but none of them falls. “She has a son, Harold.”

“Yes, Mr. Reese, and he has a father.”

“But not a mother, not now... I should have... we should have stopped it.”

“I know,” Harold says quietly because he knows what John thinks. Harold never picked up the ringing phone to hear what the Machine would say. Would it have apologized for being too late?

They exit through the back door and carry John toward Harold's car. Root opens the back door on the driver side for John. “We have about two minutes to get out of here before we have more cops to shoot.”

“Good times,” Ms. Shaw says deadpan as she helps Harold ease John into the car before moving around to the front passenger seat.

“Harold,” John suddenly grips Harold's jacket just as he starts to move away. “You should have let me kill him. You should have let me.”

“You did shoot him, John, didn’t you? You didn't give me a chance to stop you,” Harold retorts. “If your gun had worked how would that have made Detective Carter more alive? What would it have done but drag you down further?” Harold frowns deeply at John and hears Ben's voice in his words. “Joss would want you alive not destroying everything she fought for over revenge.”

“Joss would be alive if we had saved her first, isn't that what we do, Finch?” John's eyelids flutter and he head sags as he nears unconsciousness. “Where was your Machine this time?”

Harold stares at John and presses his lips tightly together. He has no excuses.

“Harold,” Root says from John's other side. “We have to go.”

Harold closes the door on John then walks around the car and climbs into the driver seat. He must now focus on saving John's life, no more losses tonight. 

As they drive away toward a hospital, Harold wants to turn around and ask Root – ask the Machine – why it failed this time.

––––––––––––––––––

Hugo and Ben stand in the jungle near where The Swan station used to be. A crater marks the spot in the ground now instead, probably about six feet deep. Undergrowth has taken over in the years since the station imploded. Hugo decided on this spot because Juliet died there when they attempted to fix the time line with the nuclear warhead.

“She might have something to say,” Hugo postulated.

Ben feels odd about their first choice of spirit or whisper to attempt to aid being Juliet. His past with Juliet was never rosy. They do not even know if she is in fact a whisper. Then again perhaps the fact that she never liked Ben will be more of an inducement for her to appear, if she is there.

“Though we don't know if it has anything to do with place,” Ben says to Hugo as they stand in the dimming light. 

“You've lived here for a long time, Ben,” Hugo says. “When did you hear them?”

Ben did not hear the whispers often but they seemed to come right before the scream of the monster or before someone died. He remembers hearing them the night they interrogated a Dharma member and Ben shot him when he attempted escape. He had warned Danielle against the whispers when he took Alex. The whispers certainly never made Ben feel safe.

“I think they try to warn about danger,” Ben says aloud. “Perhaps they don't want anyone to join their fate.”

“Hello?” Hugo shouts. “We've come to talk to you. Juliet?”

Ben glances around as if he would be able to see any dead person if they came. In fact, it might be useless Ben being here at all. He supposes he provides moral support.

“Juliet?” Hugo tries again.

“Perhaps danger is a requirement?” Ben guesses.

Hugo sighs. “Well when Michael came to talk to me that one time it was to help me but I wasn't in, like, immediate danger.”

“Maybe they treat different people differently.”

Hugo groans. “Couldn't your daughter haven't given us just a little more direction?”

Ben huffs. “You're the protector, Hugo. You give the direction.”

“Right...”

Hugo paces around the edge of the crater, then steps inside and circles deeper and deeper until he stands in the center. He looks up at Ben above him standing on the edge. He chuckles. “Weird to see you from this angle.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. “Is that a short joke?”

Hugo shrugs. “Just a fact.”

“Feels like a short joke.”

Hugo chuckles. “Yeah maybe.” He turns around in place once then cups his hands around his mouth. “Hello! I want to help.” He drops his hands. “Don't you want to move on?”

Then they hear it; voices swirling around them, low and soft and near unintelligible. 

_Wait._

_….not you_

_So… long…_

Ben hears more close behind him, low and deep and he wonders if his father waits out in this jungle. Would his father whisper about betrayal or forgiveness?

“Yes,” Hugo says with a grin. “Yes, we want to help you.”

The whispers become louder for a moment, as if more have joined in a strange chorus. Ben tries to pick out particular voices, tries to string words together into sentences but the sound is all a jumble.

“Okay, one at a time...” Hugo mutters. “Tell me what you need,” Hugo tries. “We want to help you move on.”

Suddenly the whispers stop like the closing of a door, even the usual sounds of jungle stop. Hugo looks up at Ben from the crater with a frown. Ben shakes his head. Hugo climbs up one shallower edge of the crater until he is back at the usual ground level. He walks around the edge of the crater until he stands beside Ben again. 

Ben looks up at him. “So?”

“I think maybe we're missing something.”

“Like?”

Hugo shakes his head. “I am just the protector of the island. I make sure nothing happens to it, that it stays balanced, right?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I can't change things, like the whispers. I can only see them, not free them.”

Ben smiles. “I don't know about that, Hugo. Jacob may have had a hands off policy but that is not you.”

Hugo shakes his head. “Maybe, but something is still missing.”

Ben thinks about all the things he has seen the island do. He remembers John Locke walking back into their camp completely healed after Ben shot him in the chest. He remembers the power of the black smoke. He remembers a young boy written on one of Jacob's lists.

“What about Walt?” Ben says.

“Like Michael’s Walt?” 

“Have you seen what he can do?” Ben looks at Hugo seriously. 

Hugo cocks his head. “This from when you kidnapped him?”

Ben gives Hugo a look and a sigh. “Yes, Hugo, from when I kidnapped him. He drew in enough birds to make a pile of dead ones outside the room where we kept him, shorted out the electricity.” Ben thinks about when he spoke to Walt, when he saw Harold for just a moment. “Who knows what else he can do?” 

“Sayid saw him in the jungle,” Hugo says suddenly as if just remembering. “When you guys had him, Sayid saw him, so did Shannon, I think. Can he… teleport?” Hugo frowns.

Ben nods absently. “Jacob was interested in him. We tried to test him but these things take time. There is something about him, Hugo.” Ben purses his lips, remembers the feeling he had when he was kept away from the island for two years. “And if he was brought here before then he might need to be back here too.”

“You think he can help with the whispers?” Hugo glances to the side and suddenly jerks in surprise. “Jesus man!”

“Hugo?” Ben says in confusion but Hugo looks at the air next to him.

“We just want to help,” Hugo says. He frowns after a moment then shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s your decision anymore, man.”

Ben does not need to ask if Hugo speaks to Michael.

“Trust me, Michael, okay?” Hugo says after another minute of silent listening.

Hugo smiles then turns and looks back to Ben. “Walt can help us. He just needs more time on the island.” His expression changes into that one Ben used to call mystical and now he thinks of as ‘protector.’ “He is meant to be on the island.”

Ben smiles. “Then I better send him a message.”

––––––––––––––––––

Harold’s world has cracked in half. Joss Carter dead, John Reese run away with Lionel searching after him, and now Harold stands thrown back in time twenty–five years with Arthur Claypool trapped in a bank safe with another baby of the technological age held in Arthur’s hands. Harold won a race against Arthur he did not even know he was running. At least Arthur named his creation: Samaritan. 

Arthur stares at Harold in awe and wonder at Harold's Machine alive and eleven years old. He says, “Your child is a dancing star.”

“It’s not my child,” Harold insists. It cannot be his child because of how he treated it, how he cut up its mind, how he gave it away and left it behind. Would any decent father treat their child that way? “It's a machine.”

“A false dichotomy, it's all electricity.” Arthur smiles fondly like a proud uncle. “Does it make you laugh? Does it make you weep?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Harold says without reservation, feeling the expression on Arthur’s face deep in his chest.

“What’s more human?” Arthur asks.

Harold cannot reply because what is more human than to destroy, to create something beautiful then break its legs and force it to crawl, as Harold did. John would say Harold was just doing what he thought best but John is not here now. John was only human and ran away in the face of grief. 

Harold thinks that maybe the world would be better if he has listened to Ben when they were eighteen, when they were twenty–five and left the real world behind. Now it is too late because he is moving toward something – the machine, Samaritan, Decima and the people he cares for caught up in Harold’s wake – he is moving toward something destructive and there will be a cost.

––––––––––––––––––

Ben stops beside a small table at a New York psychiatric facility where Walt sits playing mostly disinterestedly with a game of Connect Four. “Hello Walt.”

He half glances up at Ben. “What are you doing here?”

“Like my note said, a friend of yours sent me.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“We all have friends,” Ben counters, “even me.”

Walt looks up at him. “Are you here to kidnap me again?”

Ben should have expected some such accusation or fear. How many things did Ben do in the name of the island which continue to ripple forward? “I’m genuinely sorry about that,” Ben says. “But what’s done is done, I can’t change the past. I can only take responsibility for it.”

Walt makes a face toward his connect four game but does not acknowledge Ben’s apology. Ben watches him for a moment as he moves the red and black pieces about, not really playing but still making lines that match.

“Walt, I’m here to help you,” Ben finally says.

“Why?” Walt looks up sharply.

“Because you’re special, and I bet no one’s told you that in a long time.”

“What good does that do me?” Walt replies with mild aggression.

“We need you,” Ben says, “you have work to do, starting with helping your father.”

Walt stares at Ben as if somehow Ben might not have known. “My father’s dead.”

Ben stares right back. “Doesn’t mean you can’t help him.”

Outside Ben walks Walt to the waiting Dharma van, no trouble with the facility as Hugo already threw some of his on land money around to negotiate the boy's release. Once in the car Walt lights up from his malaise at the sight of Hugo.

“I knew someone would come back for me!” Walt says

Ben knows, right then, that Walt is the key to moving forward. The island is what he needs and the island needs him. 

Ben thinks that maybe his actions now will be able to balance out what he did in the past. Now it is time to move toward something – something new, better, for Hugo, for Walt, for the island – he is moving toward something good and it will be beautiful.

––––––––––––––––––

Harold stands on a bridge with Grace on the other side, a hostage in this rising war with Decima. He can only guess at what they want from him. A back door into his Machine? His assistance with their new Samaritan? A way to enslave them both?

Ben sits beside Hugo as he tells Walt about his place and Walt’s place on the island. He watches Hugo be the leader, the protector, the man here to save Walt. He wonders exactly how much longer will Hugo need him? Will his own role on the island start to change?

“We'll be coming for you, Harold,” John says and it is a comfort to know that he will always, despite the grief and death and problems thrown in their way, have John on his side.

“Let's go home, Ben,” Hugo says and it is a confirmation that if Ben wants to stay forever on the island, with Hugo, then Hugo will have him there.

“It's truly a pleasure to put a face to the name, Mr. Finch. I've been wanting to meet you for a long time now.”

Harold sits stiffly in his chair. “What is it that you want, Mr. Greer?”

“I want to talk about the future. And who more qualified for that conversation than the father of artificial intelligence?”

Harold thinks his Machine did the right thing running when Harold set it free. Why would it want to live in a world where it is seen as a commodity or a God? Who would put such roles on their child? Was Harold wrong to create the Machine at all?

“Welcome home, man,” Hugo says to Walt as they stand near the bow of their ship.

Ben stands a step behind. “Have you missed it?”

Walt stares at the island in the distance with a strange expression on his face. “Yes.”

Ben thinks perhaps he and Walt are more alike than he ever considered. Both lost their mothers, both were disappointed in their fathers. Walt would likely not favor the comparison. Ben will have time to make up for their past now.

Harold stands up in a false courtroom, with kidnapped people and shouts to a vigilante information protector, “Stop!” It feels like a melodrama or some sort of satire but he will not lose more lives when he has tried to save so many. “I can help you, the questions you’re asking I know the answers.”

The man, this Peter Collier, walks away from Control seated in the ‘witness stand’ back toward Harold and his protests. “How do you know?”

“Because I built it.”

And Harold thinks he seals his fate; he prays he does not seal Ben’s too.

Hugo and Ben step off the boat with Walt while Nadia and Peter see to the boat. They walk slowly down the dock where Walt last left the island years ago.

“Like you remember?” Hugo asks.

“Exactly like,” Walt replies as they walk.

“We have some houses which I don’t believe you have had a chance to see,” Ben explains. “We have one set aside just for you.”

Then Walt’s feet touch the real sand earth of the island and he stops walking.

“Command!” A voice over the walkie–talkie on the desk behind Collier shouts. “One of our guard posts has been hit, no survivors, repeat, no survivors.”

The Vigilance members pull Harold from his seat along with Greer, Control and the Senator. They are the guilty parties in Peter’s eyes, in the eyes of his terrorist group. Who was Harold to control information? Who were any of them to decide? Nothing wrong with a dictatorship as long as you’re the dictator. Harold wonders if perhaps he deserves this.

The four of them are ferried down the halls of this abandoned building, marble floors and stone walls. Harold recognizes their ‘court house’ as in fact an old post office. Then they take an underground level into another building and up a twisting stairwell. Harold climbs stairs with a gun prodding his back. He tells himself, as they turn up floors, that at least Grace will be safe if he dies but Ben...

‘Maybe we were wrong all along,’ Harold tells himself. ‘Ben will live if I die. He has to. I will not take him with me.’

They come out on the roof, Harold in front, though Collier quickly strides ahead of him barking orders to his compatriots. “There, line them up, facing the court house.”

Harold looks out at the dim streets below. There are no cars on the street and few people, no street lamps with the blackout.

“Since we appear to be out of time,” Collier says to Harold and the other three with him, “we’ll have to forgo the jury verdict and issue a summary judgement.”

“I’ve held up my end of our bargain, Mr. Collier.” Harold steps forward. “Guilty as charged. Must your revolution require blood?” He tries, just one chance if what they have always felt is true, to save Ben’s life. “I told you the truth and you feel we should be upheld to the word of law, what about you?”

Before Collier can reply, a gunshot hits one of Vigilance’s men and he falls to the ground. Everyone jerks in the direction of the shot and someone shouts, “Decima!”

Harold ducks low as he can behind a stone edge of the building, still close to the outer wall. The Decima agents and Vigilance members trade fire, hiding behind packing barrels and ventilation hatches. Harold cannot tell which side is winning in the dark until suddenly Collier falls back with a shot to the shoulder. One member of the Decima group walks forward to speak with Greer.

“We’re making an extraction route for you, sir.”

“Very good.”

Greer turns back to Harold and Collier now standing behind him at gunpoint. Harold knows he miscalculated. The U.S. government was not the worst force to be in charge of a power like the Machine; Samaritan and Decima are the unmoral Titans come to tear down Harold’s child god.

“Walt?” Hugo asks. “You okay?”

“I forgot this, how it really felt,” He says as he stands with his back to the two of them.

“How what felt?” Ben asks. An unrecognizable fear starts to creep up his spine.

“How did my father die?” Walt asks abruptly. Hugo and Ben glance at each other. “He never came back from here.”

“He died saving your friends,” Ben says by way of answer. “The island wasn’t finished with him yet, just as it’s not finished with you. You have so much more to do here.” Ben steps up beside Walt. “There are people here you can help, including your father.”

“We told you we want to help them move on,” Hugo says, moving up to Walt’s other side. “We need your help to do it though. I’m not enough.”

“The island isn’t done with me yet.” He turns his head to gaze down the beach. 

“Exactly,” Ben says but his voice is guarded because Walt is acting strange. It reminds him of Sayid when he was infected by the monster. “Walt, are you…”

“You say the island isn’t done with me yet, maybe I’m not done with the island.” Walt takes a few steps forward then turns around to face Ben and Hugo. His face is different. He smiles but the expression is wrong. “This island took my father away from me when I finally got him in my life. It ruined him.” He suddenly looks directly at Ben. “You ruined him; you turned him into a killer!”

“Walt, stop it,” Hugo says. “This isn’t why we’re here now.”

Walt laughs and the sound is more adult than the teenager before them. Ben wants to kick himself for not seeing it. Walt looks the way Ben did when he was young, when he hated Dharma and his father for keeping him abused and trapped. Walt looks like a child pushed too far and where Ben lost Harold, Walt lost his father at the island’s hands, at Jacob’s behest, at Ben’s will.

“I can’t change the past, Walt,” Ben tries. “We can only move forward.”

Walt smiles and Ben hears the sound of birds calling. “You’re right, Ben. We can move forward because the island,” Walt holds up a hand like a performer on stage, “it’s special.” Then he turns around to face the jungle. “And so am I.”

Ben hears the sound of thousands of flapping wings.

An explosion blows out the bottom level of the post office far below Harold. All the police entering the building and the people wrangled into being Vigilance’s trial audience were still inside. Decima set a trap for Vigilance, for the federal government, even for Harold. They created an enemy to make Samaritan the new power rising to the top.

“Someday, the truth will come out,” Collier says.

“To quote your Benjamin Franklin,” Greer says, “three may keep a secret as long as two of them are dead.”

Gunshots pop behind them and Collier falls to the gravel roof beside Harold. Harold gasps and turns to stare at Greer and his operative beside him.

“I’m glad you’ve lived long enough to see the dawn of the new world you created, Harold.”

Harold breathes in an out as Greer preaches before him. He thinks this is the closest he has come to the end. A rooftop alone in the dark is not the death Harold expected. Ben should be here. Ben should be standing next to him, smiling at him, holding his hand. Harold is not supposed to die alone.

Then Greer’s man fires his gun at Harold.

A veritable wave of birds flow out of the jungle and begin to swarm around the three of them, dark crows and small finches, seagulls and sparrows. The birds circle around Walt like a vengeful God of might. Then the birds fly at Ben stabbing at him with their sharp beaks.

“Walt, stop it!” Hugo shouts.

Hugo plants his feet but his job is to protect, not to attack. However, none of the birds strike Hugo, only Ben. Ben tries to shield himself but there are hundreds of them coming from all sides. He feels a sharp pain in his shoulder then his back then his arm. He cannot keep track of where they are and he cannot see with all the wings and noise. He drops to his knees trying to keep himself lower than the birds can fly but they keep dive–bombing him with no regard for hitting the ground, gone mad. 

Ben screams and tries to sink into the sand. He cannot die now, not on the beach of his island without Harold beside him. Of all the ways he could die this is not the death Ben expected. Harold should be standing next to him, smiling at him, holding his hand. Ben is not supposed to die alone.

John strides across the rooftop shooting at Greer as he goes. Harold realizes he is only shot in the shoulder. The Decima men shoot back at them as John puts himself between Harold and the gunshots. Harold grasps John’s arm and pulls them in the other direction as Decima retreats. His shoulder burns with pain but they are leaving, escaping this night and this rooftop.

“Come on, John,” Harold shouts over the gunshots. “We have to leave!”

“No, Walt!” Ben hears Hugo say over the sounds of wings. “I won’t allow it.”

The stab of beaks suddenly stops and Ben hears the wings retreating, flying up and away from him. Ben lifts his head to see Hugo standing in front of him, a shield, just like a protector.

“This island won’t hurt me,” Hugo tells Walt then Ben sees his stance relax. “We aren’t enemies, Walt, please.”

“The island is my enemy,” Walt says.

Ben blinks and Walt is not standing on the beach any longer.

“We all have to hide now,” Harold says to John as they make their way back to the library. “Samaritan is online and they will be looking for us.”

“We have to search for him now,” Ben says to Hugo as he helps Ben stand again, small tears and streaks of blood all over him. “Walt doesn’t know what he’s doing. He is hurt and afraid.”

Harold says, “We are in a war.” 

“We don't want a war,” says Ben.


	14. The Chosen children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ben thinks, for once, he is glad Harold is safe, far away from the island._  
>  _Harold thinks, for once, he is glad Ben is safe, far away on his island._  
>  [Ben and Hugo try to reach Walt and bring him around while Harold continues to fight Samaritan against worsening odds.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought I could fit 2 seasons of POI into one chapter. I was wrong. But it is better to do something right than quickly. As this story clearly shows. As always, thank you to those who have stayed with me.

“I have something to tell you.”

Hugo stands on the top step leading up into the temple, Ben stands a few feet behind Hugo near a column still charred from the monster’s rampage years before. In front of them, the rest of their people stand down on the dirt of the courtyard listening. Ben thinks the group looks diminished. He forgets how many they used to be, how many they lost due to bullets or monsters. 

“We brought someone new back to the island; you might know him from when my first plane crashed.” Hugo smiles in a grim way. “A kid called Walt.”

Ben sees flickers of recognition. Cindy looks over at Ben and raises her eyebrows. Ben looks away. He counts the people. He wonders how many birds there are to people on this island, ten to one, a hundred to one?

“Not exactly a kid anymore,” Hugo continues, a wistful smile on his face. Then he straightens up. “It did not go as planned and I’m not going to lie to you, it is going to be a problem.”

Ben realizes as he watches their people – Hugo’s people – that the system has changed. There is no leader any longer. Hugo is the leader and the protector. There is no need for commands and notes and secrets because there are so few of them and Hugo is very much not Jacob. Hugo does not want to keep secrets from his people, to keep them in the dark. Hugo is willing to protect Ben against Walt, not only willing, he wants to.

“Walt is back?”

Ben glances at Cindy now standing beside him as Hugo talks on about what happened at the beach. Then Ben looks away again toward Hugo. “He is.”

“Why?”

“Because he has a purpose here,” Ben says in true cryptic fashion.

Cindy purses her lips and brushes some wavy hair from her face. “When he was here before… the tests…”

“Jacob had been interested in him and Walt exhibited… powers.” Ben really looks at her this time. “We don’t know for sure just what he can do but we wanted his help.” Ben looks back at Hugo. “And to help him.”

“Instead he did this?” Ben feels her touch his face where one bandage hides the wound from a bird beak very close under his eye.

Ben breathes in deeply so he shifts back and away from her touch. She stares at him for a few seconds then drops her hand. They both watch Hugo as he finishes his speech.

“We’re not sure what he wants but we are going to find him. He should be one of us.” Hugo smiles. “We just need to bring him around.”

Ben purses his lips and resists saying something dark and sarcastic about ‘understatements.’ He needs to think of the good, of the hope that Hugo espouses. It is hard not to fall back on familiar patterns of hate and retribution. Walt has taken that route well in hand. Is this what they mean about the ‘higher path?’

“Hey dude.” Hugo gestures to Ben’s face as he approaches. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I was stabbed by a hundred angry birds.” Hugo gives him a dry look then Ben sighs. “Better but I think we have worse to worry about now.”

“What can we do?” Cindy asks.

Hugo turns to her. “Look for him. It’s the best we’ve got at the moment. If you find him, bring him to me but like don’t force him, okay? He’s been kidnapped enough.”

Cindy nods and walks back toward the others. Hugo watches her for a moment then looks at Ben again. Ben raises his eyebrows. They both know that finding Walt will not be so simple on an island like this nor will he likely be amenable to just ‘come quietly.’

Hugo twists his lips as he looks down at Ben. “We just need to talk to him. He’s an angry kid.”

“Angry kids turn into hateful men.”

Hugo’s face falls somewhat. He does not accuse Ben of mysticism here. “That won’t happen.”

“It did to me,” Ben says.

“He still has time.” Hugo then cocks his head. “Plus look at you now. We can help Walt. He will listen.”

Ben only nods. He says nothing about the wreckage they both know Ben endured and wrought in turn to get where he is now. The question is, of course, how much wreckage will Walt make before he comes out of the other side? 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Professor Whistler walks down the stairs into the dark of an unused subway station with Bear at his side. Harold frowns at the thought of the word ‘professor’ in front of his name, albeit a false name. He never had a desire to teach. Teaching always felt like a failure. What is the saying, ‘those who cannot do, teach?’ Harold has always been able to ‘do.’

When they reach the subway platform, Harold steps over to the generator near the end of the guardrail. He kneels down with some difficulty, flashlight held in front of him, then turns it on. A string of lights in the middle of the room light up with the mechanical sound of the generator in the cavernous space.

“Enough light to spoof by, isn’t it, Bear?”

Harold looks down at Bear as the dog looks up at him. 

Harold smiles at him. “Bear, liggen.” He gestures toward the dog bed Harold brought into the space beside one of the tiled poles. Bear makes a light ‘woof’ noise then trots over to the bed and lies down.

Harold walks over to the two laptops he set up on an old, metal workman’s cart. He has spoofed two apartment buildings so far to provide his small set up with internet access. However, if he going to be funneling the power of the Machine to this location then he is going to need a better network. The power to the third rail through this station still functions; the city would have no reason to spare such labor to decommission this section when it would interrupt the flow of power to stations nearby. So, Harold has a source of electricity all ready for him.

“And untraceable,” Harold says aloud with some pleasure. “Still need a new blow torch to finish setting that up, however.”

At the moment, the generator fulfills the purpose. Harold logs into his computer and sets up a hack to integrate his system into the Wi-Fi of another apartment building. He can let that run for about fifteen minutes then fine tune it and erase any digital footprint.

It has only been a few weeks since their small team went into hiding with the rise of Samaritan. The four of them have new names and new jobs; no, the four of them have covers and hideouts, at least as far as Harold knows. He has only spoken to John since ‘the fall.’ John wants to get back to saving the numbers, itching from the return to hiding and normalcy and isolation in public. Harold told him their covers are the priority. It is how they stay alive. 

Then the Machine sent Harold a book code hidden in a false dissertation.

“When children try to teach their parents,” Harold mutters as he takes out his tool kit and some wires.

The Machine has not always behaved as Harold planned, even contemplating murder of a senator to protect itself. But has not Harold also sanctioned murder with the relevant numbers, with their attempts at saving their own numbers? Does level of guilt, present or perceived, give cause for murder? In the end, perhaps it is Harold failing the machine. How can you teach a Machine ethics when ethics is indefinable and different dependent upon on one’s perception and situation? Is Harold’s view of the ethics of life the one which should be infallible?

“Perhaps not,” Harold says to himself.

He brings a stack of yellow wires over to the lone subway car parked on the tracks. He needs to hook them up through the car and then into the power distribution of the third rail. The car itself will make for a good base of operations. Once he has spoofed enough Wi-Fi signals, he can create a network and connect the hardware to the electrical power from the subway system.

When first starting this subway project, Harold thought John and Ms. Shaw could use the access to all the operations they would need, himself no longer a part of the plan, choosing to hide. But it was Harold who started this, Harold who recruited John and later Ms. Shaw. How can he cower in the shadows now when either of them could die pursuing the purpose he laid before them? 

So when John texts Harold for a ‘late night snack’, which turns into Harold having a number of his own, Claire Mahoney, Harold could play it safe, hide as he always has before. Now is not the time for hiding. Now he cannot be angry at his Machine, like a parent using the silent treatment on a child. Now he cannot pretend that survival is their only option.

“I’ll take care of it, Detective Riley,” Harold says before John can give Harold any background.

John makes a happy noise. “And here I thought you were going to fight me on this.”

“No, you were right. We are in a war and I cannot sit on the sidelines and let you and Ms. Shaw fight alone.” Harold must teach by action, by fighting against the world Samaritan wants to create. “And the numbers still need saving.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Ben and Hugo stand side by side in the old rec room, map of the island spread out on the back table. Emma is off searching through the old file room for the Dharma construction logs while her brother goes through the records they have from the Staff and any medical examinations of Walt. Hugo also sent Cindy to the radio tower to monitor any transmissions it should pick up while Peter takes a shift at the resurrected Flame. They still need to row over to the Hydra for anything more. 

Now Hugo and Ben look at the map trying to determine a 'where' to Walt. The map shows the old Dharma stations, notes made by Charles, Eloise, even Ben at points, marking changes they made, traps set, conflict sites, codes. It could be called a history of the island in some respect.

Hugo sighs as he stares down at the map. “Dude, we need to make new maps.” He points at the Dharma insignia for the Swan station. “That's not even there anymore.”

Ben frowns. “We know it's gone.”

“But not everyone will.”

Ben raises his eyebrows at Hugo. “Future generations?”

“Or whoever arrives.”

“What do you want to name it instead, 'The Crater?'“

Hugo purses his lips. “Uh, it's accurate.”

“Or you could name it 'The Former Swan.'“

“Wouldn't that be confusing if you didn't know about the station before?”

“It would add mystery.”

“Does our island really need more mystery?”

Ben smiles at Hugo's use of the modifier 'our.' “Maybe.”

“How are you so calm?” Hugo asks. “With Walt...”

“He is not the first person who has wanted to kill me, Hugo. Surely you’re aware of that?”

Hugo frowns. “You get used to that?” Before Ben can response, Hugo shakes his head. “You shouldn't get used to that.”

Ben smiles. Hugo does not need to know what it feels like; he should not understand such constant fear and hate. Ben will not tell Hugo that his father taught him pain and distrust, others wishing death for him was just the evolution.

To Hugo he says, “That's why one has something to live for.”

“Like your daughter?”

“And Harold,” Ben says. “I used to believe...” He used to think his power was worth living for, was 'the thing.'“

“But it's not just you,” Hugo says, swiping his hand across the map. “Walt wants to hurt the island too.” He blows out a breath. “And I'm the protector.”

“Yes.”

“And I brought Walt here.”

“Hugo...”

“No, I should have known. I should have seen it.”

“You're seeing what he can be.”

Hugo looks at Ben. “He's not there yet. We have to get him there. He's still just a kid.”

Ben raises his eyebrows, thinks of Alex and her slingshot. “Not so much a kid.”

“So where would he go?” Hugo asks down toward the map again. “I mean, why isn't he just attacking us or whatever?” He turns to Ben. “What can he really do with his power?”

“I was hoping you would know more now,” Ben says looking back at Hugo, “It was Jacob who was interested in him.”

“I know he has potential,” Hugo says in a quiet, contemplative way.

“But potential for what?” Ben asks. “Good or destruction?”

“That might depend on him.”

“Or you.” Ben gives him a look. “It's you who made him light up in the van when we picked him up.”

“We have to find him first,” Hugo says with a wave of his hands. “One problem at a time.”

“Yes, of course, philosophy later,” Ben gestures to the map. “The Dharma stations are a possibility. The Swan is gone; The Flame is for communications off island which is not his goal.” Ben taps a finger on the paper. “I certainly hope he doesn’t consider The Tempest.”

“That the chemical one Jack went to that time?”

Ben chuckles. “Yes, the chemical one.”

Hugo gives him a look. Then he shakes his head. “He's got powers... He doesn't need the station.”

Ben nods in agreement. “No.” Walt already has swarming birds at his command. “The jungle is everywhere, what more could he need?”

“The right time?” Hugo says with a dark look.

Ben certainly understands that, strike when the time is right. Does Walt already have a plan and a strategy? Or does he want Ben to wait in fear? Is his retreat simply a delay to cause mental harm? Ben understands that tactic too. He would tell Walt, were he here, that such a tactic was used on him long ago every day with a father who resented him via fists and an absence by his side that never truly returned. It has far less effect on him now.

“Perhaps he is scared too,” Ben says aloud. “Perhaps he still needs to make his plan.”

“I guess we sort of handed this to him.”

“Maybe it was meant to happen,” Ben says because, after all, Ben forced his way back here and Hugo may have accepted him but the protector is not the island. “Maybe this is the island's plan.”

“What, plan?” Hugo asks.

“To remove me for good.”

Hugo gives him a hard look. “Then I'll tell it no. You're staying here.” Ben cannot help a smile and Hugo smiles right back. “Can’t get out of being my advisor that easy.” Then he taps the map. “Let's find Walt.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“So The Brotherhood is trying to make a play.”

“If this is what you call a play.”

“Laws of crime, Shaw, old makes way for the new.”

Ms. Shaw scoffs at John. “Yeah, after a lot of gun shots.”

“What does Elias say?” John asks and Harold knows the question is for him.

“We don't e-mail, Mr. Reese,” Harold replies tersely.

“When you talked on your subway ride?” Harold stiffens but does not reply. John, however, presses, “You're telling me you haven't tapped his phone and hacked his accounts?”

Harold shoots John standing in the subway car doorway an annoyed look even though John's tone had changed to amused. John raises his eyebrows back. Harold stands up, passing between John and Ms. Shaw, out toward his desk and other computer set up.

“They must be gaining some ground if they have an agent in the DEA,” Ms. Shaw says. “Should we be worried?”

“We should always be worried now, Ms. Shaw,” Harold says as he sits down at his computer.

Harold wants to worry about the Brotherhood and Elias and the gang war clearly growing on the horizon, however, Harold's focus lies somewhere higher. Samaritan has their small band at a clear disadvantage. Samaritan has no limits, unlike the Machine, and no years of learning to tame its A.I. mind. Samaritan has more human agents, more connections and less remorse or scruples. What could a new born A.I. want and what could stop it from its aims? They need to know how Samaritan thinks, how its code works. If Harold can get inside Samaritan, then perhaps he can take it apart or reign it in. 

Harold needs to shift into the offensive. Samaritan is gathering agents like Claire, people with computer and hacking skills. If Harold can pinpoint a Samaritan target ahead of the game then perhaps that could be an in. He just needs a doorway. Harold has always been good with putting computers together, with building code, creating systems but he can break them too. He wrote a virus to free the Machine. He can write malware to kill Samaritan.

“I see my name, Harold.” Harold turns sharply at Root suddenly standing by his side. “’Root code.’ You building a backdoor?” She frowns. “Would She appreciate that?”

“Ms. Groves...”

Root gives him the look she always does when he uses her given name. Then she presses on. “Something wrong with the Machine? Or is this a contingency plan should something happen to Her?”

“No,” Harold shifts so his back blocks the screen. “I am running a check.”

Root frowns at him. “Are you?”

“Can I help you with something?”

“Can I help _you_?” Root counters trying to glance over his shoulder at his coding. “You're not the only coder around here.”

“Root!”

Root's expression shifts into pleased and mischievous, the one reserved solely for Ms. Shaw. “Hey there, sweetie.” She turns around as Ms. Shaw walks over. “I hear you threatened to burn drugs to save a number.” She touches Ms. Shaw's shoulders with a grin. “Very ‘Scarface’ of you.”

John chuckles. “Have you actually watched that movie, Root?”

“More importantly,” Ms. Shaw interrupts, “I don't see any take out in your hands. I thought I ordered a sandwich?”

Ms. Groves tilts her head and let’s go of Ms. Shaw. “Well, She needed me on a bit of reconnaissance.” Ms. Groves holds up an ID badge for the Natural History Museum. “Wouldn't believe what you can hide inside a taxidermy –”

“Stop,” Ms. Shaw says quickly. Then she rolls her eyes. “I can get my own sandwich.”

“Unless you want me to take you to dinner.” Ms. Groves pouts. “I should apologize after all.”

“Or Shaw,” John interrupts the flirting. “You could go back to work.”

Ms. Shaw groans. “If I have to sell one more eyebrow pencil I will stab it in my eye.”

“Creative,” Ms. Groves quips.

“And you should get back to the station yourself, Detective Riley,” Harold says. “We all have covers to uphold.”

Root purses his lips at Harold. “And what about you, papers to grade, professor?”

Harold frowns back at her. “I'm an adjunct.”

“Doesn’t mean there aren’t papers. Who’s avoiding now?”

Ms. Shaw shakes her head. “I'm getting a sandwich. Call me if there is a number.” Then she stomps off toward the stairs, muttering as she does. “Please let there be a number.”

“I'll help you,” Root says, running after Ms. Shaw with a smile. “I might need some new lipstick myself.”

“Root, you...”

Harold stops paying attention to the two women as John touches his shoulder. Harold looks up at him. John's expression is concerned. “About the Brotherhood...”

“I know. The fact that Elias had little information to give us is disquieting in itself but we do not have time to investigate them.” John nods. “We have to focus on the bigger threat of Samaritan.”

“And what is our plan on that?”

Harold stares at John then looks away. “I'm working on it.” He does not want to tell John everything just yet. A war of codes and high functioning computer systems is Harold's arena. “We also have the numbers.” He looks at John again. “And our covers.”

John nods once more with a displeased expression. His hand falls from Harold's shoulder. “I know. I can talk to Fusco about The Brotherhood.” He shrugs. “Just in case.”

Harold scoffs then nods back. “Good luck.” 

John turns and walks toward the stairs where the women went. Harold swivels back around to his computer screen. He has a lot of work to do. He needs to build a malware with various entry points that accomplishes a lot without gaining the attention of an all-seeing A.I. It would possibly move quicker with Root's help but he suspects resistance to his project should he mention it to Root, or John for that matter. However, they cannot simply hide and hope Samaritan will disappear.

“And I need a way in,” Harold says to himself.

He opens an internet browser window. He types in a web address and reads information on the landing page of a business conference to take place this year in Hong Kong, sessions on security systems, ethics and modern computing. Harold brings up the list of speakers and hacks into the current attendees. 

“One of you must be on Samaritan's radar.”

He finds the name of a woman with a Masters in mathematics, the owner of a business ‘Predictive Analytics,’ recent interviews with an eye toward investors in her new algorithms: Beth Bridges.

“Hello,” Harold whispers. Time to play offense.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Ben takes a long boat over to Hydra Island. A number of files from his days as the leader remain at the station. Most of them are no longer relevant, minutes from council meetings, pregnancy tracking, submarine manifests. However, there are also records from their various captives and new recruits, records about Walt. Hugo offered to go with Ben but, at present, Hugo needs to mediate through the differing opinions of their people on what to do about Walt. Some still favor the idea of killing Walt outright, why risk letting him live? Obviously, Hugo does not approve.

Ben pulls the boat up onto the sand to make sure it is not lost to the waves. Then he walks into the jungle toward The Hydra station. The jungle is denser here, less traveled by human feet these past years. It reminds Ben of when he and Harold first came to the island and the jungle meant danger and mystery.

“Do you miss the jungle, Harold?” Ben asks the trees around him.

Ben enters the station with some difficulty, vines having grown over the doors. Inside, glass and leaves mingle together on the floor. Ben makes his way down a hall until he comes to his former office. The various filing cabinets still line the wall, the metal holding up better against the elements than many of the windows. Ben, however, is not the only one visiting the office.

“Hi, Ben.” Ben stops just inside the doorway. Walt looks up at him from where he sits at the desk.

Walt leans over the desk reading from a spread of papers and open file folders. Ben sees a Dharma insignia in the corner of one page. “Hello, Walt.”

Walt looks back down at the papers in front of him, flipping one over. Ben steps in cautiously, keeping to the edges of the room. He tries to read the text but the papers are too far away.

“What are you doing here, Walt?” Ben asks.

Walt's eyes slide up to peer at Ben then he sits up. “You and your people have been here a long time, Ben.”

Ben frowns. “Yes, long before I came here.”

Walt smiles. “And Dharma.” Walt pick up once piece of paper and shakes it at Ben. “Scientists.” He humphs. “Sort of.”

“They thought they could learn things I suppose,” Ben allows, more charitable then he usually is when it comes to the initiative.

“So some of you must have learned more about this island, how and why it is here.” Ben says nothing as Walt stares at him. He thinks he understands what Walt is coming to. “So at least one of you must have learned how to destroy it.” Walt puts the paper in his hand back down. “Or else you wouldn't be so worried about protecting it, would you?”

“I'm not worried.”

Walt gives him a disbelieving look that reminds him of Alex. “Why would Hugo need to be here then? He could be happy back in California instead of stuck here.”

“He is not stuck; he is happy here,” Ben says with a touch of insistence in his tone.

“Right.” 

Walt flips through a notebook by his right hand that looks like it might have belonged to Eloise if Ben recognizes the handwriting at this distance. He wonders if he should try to get all the documents away from Walt. What exactly might Walt learn looking at them all together? Even Ben never paged back through all the notes and records previous leaders kept. Why would he need to when he had Jacob to believe in and Richard to hand him instructions? He led as he saw fit.

“This island has been here a long time,” Ben says, stepping a little closer to the desk. “You may think that it has hurt you, that you need to hurt it back, but it is important and home to something special.”

“It's you I need to hurt, Ben,” Walt says in a matter-of-fact voice. “The island, I need to sink to the bottom of the ocean.”

“What do you think you'll find here, Walt?” Ben asks. 

Walt grins. “A magic button.”

Ben cannot tell if Walt jokes or not. Then Walt stands up from the chair. Ben takes a large step backward. He did not bring a gun with him and even if he had would it be any good? 

“Do you remember when you kept me in a room, Ben? Had a number on the door, people kept trying to give me tests?”

“Yes.”

“You kidnapped me off the raft my father built and when you came to talk to me I made that person appear, that guy who looked like you.” 

Ben says nothing. 

Walt stares at him searchingly. “Who was he anyway? I couldn't tell then. Was he dead? Is he somewhere on the island? Are you a reincarnated ghost?” 

Ben still says nothing. Walt laughs just once like a shot at his own joke.

“I've been trying to think,” Walt continues, “of the best way to hurt you.” Ben sees Walt's hand trembling slightly, anger perhaps? Ben remembers that. “You took my father from me. You have no idea of what it was like back on land after the island.”

“I have some,” Ben interrupts.

Walt smacks his hand on the table. “No idea!” Walt huffs. “What this island did to us? You ruined my life!”

“I didn't bring you here, Walt,” Ben says, “and I did not make your father's choices for him.”

Walt frowns and takes a step around the desk. “Yes, you did.” 

Ben backs up again, glances around quickly for some way to defend himself against whatever Walt may throw at him, bird or otherwise. Then Walt walks past Ben – Ben tenses despite himself – and toward the door. 

“Walt?” He stops at the door then looks at Ben again. “Come back with me, talk to Hugo. You can choose to hate me if you want but the island can help you.”

Walt scrunches up his face as if considering then shakes his head. “Pass.”

Ben tries to think of what Hugo would say, something comforting, something simple but convincing. “It's not just about you. There are people on this island who need your help. People like your father, you can –”

“Don't talk to me about my father!” Walt snaps and the windows shake for a brief moment. Ben glances around, half expecting the sound of caws and squawks. Then Walt opens the door. “You know, it's too bad your daughter's dead, she would have been perfect to use to hurt you.”

Then he sweeps out the door, the glass smashing behind him as it slams closed. Ben does not jump in surprise or try to run after Walt. He just thinks about Alex with a bullet hole in her head in front of their house. If she had not died then would she have died now because of him anyway? Did he truly do her a kindness when he took her from her mad mother?

Ben leans back against the file cabinets and wonders if Hugo was right in asking him to stay.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Harold walks down the hall of a high-rise in Tribeca. It is early afternoon so the building is quiet with most occupants at work for the day. Harold reaches apartment three-one-four and pulls out a set of lock picks. He looks left then right down the hall. When he sees no one, he kneels and quickly sets to work on the doorknob. It takes him very little time to unlock. He twists the door open, steps inside and closes it again behind him. He puts the lock picks back into his inner jacket pocket.

Harold walks into the apartment and heads toward the bedroom. The computer set up might have been in the living room but from his surveillance of the building, the highest concentration of electrical output centered on the bedroom. Harold steps over a pair of recently used sneakers, past the unmade bed, and sits down at the desk in front of the windows. Harold shuts off his phone. Though he values his team members’ skills, this is his exploit and not one he intends to be interrupted.

“Let’s see what you’re working on.”

When Harold went to Hong Kong, he managed to get a Trojan horse installed on Beth Bridges computer. When the algorithm makes its way to Samaritan, Harold’s malware will go too. However, that is not Harold’s only plan to infiltrate Samaritan’s coding. Samaritan has already attempted to hijack tablets intended to indoctrinate children. Harold has no idea what other methods it may have devised to insert itself everywhere.

The apartment Harold just broke into belongs to a Sasha Keats, freelance computer programmer and spare time hacker. Harold read a couple of her essays on the dark net about security infiltration of government websites and protecting oneself against legal detection. Recently she stopped taking on new commissions and has been silent on any portion of the web for a month. Harold’s A.I. senses tingled.

“Who are you working for now, Ms. Keats?” Harold mutters to himself as he attempts to access her computer.

Sasha spends every Tuesday afternoon visiting her sister across the river in New Jersey. Her sister is a work from home mom with two-year-old twins, so the routine is both valuable and fairly iron clad in its regularity. The playdate allows Harold a few hours to hack her system and obtain any information which could help him.

“Are you working for Samaritan?”

It takes Harold about forty–five minutes but he is finally able to hack into her computer. He quickly erases evidence of his hack and recalls the transmission of the photo auto generated by the webcam upon his hack.

Harold smiles. “Good girl.” If this war between them and Samaritan were not so life threatening at present Harold might try and recruit her.

Harold searches through her projects, old coding for an insurance firm which reminds him of long days maintaining a cover identity. He wonders about Will. Is he still with Doctors Without Borders? Harold has not checked on the only Ingram child in a long time.

Then Harold sees it, a multi-layer security file right on the desktop labeled: ‘Nautilus.’

“Did she play the same game Claire did?” Harold asks himself aloud. 

He hacks into the file and instantly knows what it is. “The Machine…”

The file contains pieces of code unique to the Machine. Harold recognizes it as old code which disappeared with the laptop years ago to China. Samaritan must be thinking the same way Harold is, if you can understand your opponent’s code then you will know how to eradicate it.

“Or to change it.” Harold stares at the code now with additions and changes made by Sasha. “Do you want to turn The Machine into something more like you?”

Suddenly Harold hears a key in the front door lock. Harold stands up abruptly and puts his back to wall close to the bedroom door.

“Sasha?” the front door opens with a male voice. “Hey, babe, it’s Malik. Your door is unlocked. Sasha?”

Footsteps move away from Harold toward either the kitchen or the living room. “Sasha, where are you?”

Harold reaches into his jacket and pulls out the syringe he brought in case of an emergency. He pulls off the cap, squirts a tiny bit of the sedative out to account for air bubbles then waits. Harold hears footsteps approaching down the hall, slower than before. Does the man suspect something is off?

“Sasha?”

As Malik, just shy of six foot, steps through the bedroom door, he trips over the shoes. So when Harold moves to jab him in the neck with the needle, Malik inadvertently ducks out of the way. As he stands again he notices Harold and jolts backward in surprise.

“The fuck are –”

Harold grabs his arm and tries to pull him within range but Malik jerks away from Harold’s grip. Harold knocks back into the wall and Malik stumbles against the bed. 

“Who are you?” He snaps but Harold does not respond, tense with the needle still held up. Malik is at least twenty–five years younger than Harold. Harold would not win in a fair fight.

The man holds up his hand as if to block Harold. “What do you want?” 

Malik looks around, likely for something to use against Harold, then his eyes stop on the open door way. Harold does not block the door but he does stand right next to it. Malik stares at Harold, clearly trying assess Harold’s plan. Then he runs for the door, shoving Harold as he goes. Harold stumbles but manages to grab Malik’s arm again with his free hand. Malik jerks away from Harold’s grip but he weighs more than Harold on height alone. They both fall, off balance. Malik hits the floor flat on his back, Harold half on top of him. 

“Shi…” Malik groans as his head knocks on the foot of the bed.

Harold recovers first, props himself up on one arm then jabs the needle into the man’s neck. Malik gasps in surprise as Harold pushes down the plunger.

“It’s just a sedative,” Harold says, “you’ll be fine. I’m sorry to do this.”

Malik chokes and grabs at Harold’s hand holding the needle but it is too late. Harold pulls the needle out of Malik’s neck with Malik’s hand grasped around Harold’s wrist.

“Who… who are….” Malik’s eyes start to flutter with the effects of the drug.

Harold waits, saying nothing, until Malik’s hand falls off Harold’s wrist. Harold shifts back off the man who must be Sasha’s boyfriend. He stands up with a wince at the odd angle aggravating his back. Then he puts the cap back on the needle and returns it to his pocket. He needs to leave.

Harold turns back to the computer. He takes a flash drive from his jacket pocket and inserts it into the drive. He takes the whole file and puts it on the flash drive. It takes five minutes to transfer due to the sheer size of the programing Sasha has done with the Machine’s code. It is nowhere near operational, more just guesses as where the code could go, but if she had enough time, who knows? Harold pulls out the flash drive when it is finished. 

He stares at the screen for a moment then sighs. “I’m sorry,” Harold says, as if Sasha could hear him, “you certainly have promise.”

Then his fingers spring to life, typing quickly, and he proceeds to remove any trace of the Machine and Sasha’s programing from the computer. Harold walks over to her nightstand and picks up the glass of water. 

“Hopefully you believe this.”

He pours the water over the power strip on the floor then again over the computer housing. The computer sparks, even smokes, for a few seconds then everything stops. Now the loss of her project could be an accident. Harold stares at the broken set up then turns around. Sasha’s boyfriend lies still on the floor, his head tilted to the side. He saw Harold’s face but hopefully Harold will just be another middle–aged white man, easily unrecognizable.

Before he leaves, Harold takes the two hard drives he finds on her bookshelf, one labeled ‘back up.’ They could contain anything but Harold suspects such a skilled programmer as Sasha would not leave a program like the pieces she had of the Machine in one place. 

“Hopefully you’re not paranoid enough to carry a copy with you,” Harold mutters.

Harold stops at Sasha’s jewelry box, takes some pearls, leaves the box a mess and clearly open. Then he steps over the prone man on the floor and makes his way back to the front of the apartment. He had planned to leave more evidence of a break in when he left but there seems little point now. Either Sasha will find her boyfriend on the floor or he will tell her what happened. At least now Harold need not rob her more; Malik can be a perfect excuse.

“Blessing in disguise,” Harold huffs.

Back out in the hall, Harold makes his way to the stairwell. He parked his car by one of the emergency exits leading to the side alley. He turns his phone back on as he makes his way downstairs. It rings in his ear not a minute later. He taps his earpiece quickly in concern. “Mr. Reese?”

“Finch, we have a problem.”

Harold frowns as he reaches the bottom of the stairs “What is it, John? Are you all right?” He should not have turned off his earpiece, not now when they are all vulnerable.

“I'm fine. It's Shaw.”

Harold bangs through the door quickly and unlocks the driver side door of his waiting car. “Ms. Shaw?”

“Reports of gunfire at her department store.”

Harold abruptly drops the hard drives on the passenger side seat and starts the car. “I’m on my way, stay at the station.”

“No way, Finch!”

“It is out of your jurisdiction and you cannot deviate from the confines of your cover.” Harold hits the gas pedal and spins out of the alley onto the main street. “I will send Ms. Groves.” Before John can respond, Harold hangs up and dials Ms. Groves.

“Hey there Harry, how –”

“Ms. Shaw’s cover is breached; I need you to get her now!”

Harold hears a clatter in the background. “On it.”

Harold hangs up the phone and drives at an unwise speed toward Chinatown. He glances at his stolen hard drives. He hopes his incursion will go unnoticed by Samaritan but the bold move was necessary. Any access he gains to Samaritan’s programing is worth the risk. Now they just need to ensure Ms. Shaw’s safety. They cannot afford any loss of people on their side. Harold tries to ignore the voice in his head laying out statistics against such odds. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

In the years since the attack of the monster and the last of the plane survivors left the island, the temple has changed from a refuge from danger into a simply pace of gathering, of peace. The healing spring in the center still flows and the quiet remains. Ben recalls funerals and speeches, Richard's face and a memory of vanishing pain all within this place. The walls had been breached so the idea of 'safety' within the old stone walls is gone. However, the island no longer houses a monster so the need to run and hide behind these walls disappeared.

Or at least it had.

Ben and Hugo spend most of their time at the barracks while the rest of their people live at the temple. Somehow, despite the tragic past there, such a close connection to the island seemed preferable to them. Hugo is still in transition. Maybe one day he will live at the temple among them or even turn 'full jungle God' and live in the statue. It is hard to say. Hugo's path has been different than most toward the island.

Today, however, Ben helps to transplant small saplings along the inner temple wall. Peter made a joke about the vines needing help to get back down to the ground on this side. Emma claimed she wanted more trees to climb. Hugo works somewhere inside, looking through the documents of the last master of the temple, Dogen, in case there should be something there that could help with Walt. Ben is skeptical.

“Ben?”

“Hmm?” Ben looks up at Cindy crouched beside him.

“I think we are done with this tree.”

Ben looks down at the dirt he had been patting around the sapling's roots. It is quite thoroughly flat. He chuckles and looks up at Cindy again. “So it is.”

She smiles. “Distracted?”

“Well, gardening allows for idle thought in the simplicity of the work.”

Cindy smiles in amusement as they stand to move a few paces down the wall. “Speak for yourself, before the island...” Her face takes on a faraway quality as they crouch low again. “Well, whenever I gardened then it was to pour water on a plant in my flat window. I'd either drown the thing or forget about it entirely so for me a bit more thought into gardening helps.”

“If you consider potted plants gardening,” Ben counters.

Cindy chuckles. “Maybe I did then. Sometimes it's...” she purses her lips then really looks at him. “Sometimes it's hard to remember how I thought before.”

Ben gazes at her for a moment then smiles. “Perhaps that's as it should be.”

“And what about you?” She takes the small transplant tree Ben holds out to her. “What were you before, potted planter or gardener?”

Ben frowns in surprise. He realizes no one ever asks him about his past. Perhaps they believed his lie of having been born here when he told it. Or perhaps his former position of leader barred such questions. But now?

“I was very young,” Ben says and cannot help one of his fall back, cryptic replies, “and less alone.”

Cindy gives him an odd look. “But you're not alone, Ben, not now.”

Then they hear it. At first Ben confuses the sound with waves, the big crest and fall washing over the shore. It makes him think of sitting beside Desmond as Hugo stared out at the ocean. Then the sound becomes fragments, not one noise but several, hundreds, maybe thousands.

“Wings,” Ben gasps.

Ben jumps up, Cindy a second later beside him. “Get inside!” He shouts to the people working around the courtyard but he is too late.

A rush of black birds blot out the sun above them then come rushing down into the temple. Birds smash into the walls as if blind or uncaring of their own fate. Stones tumble down along with bloodied bird bodies. Feathers rain around them like leaves. The birds make no distinction between stone or person, ripping through people with sharp beaks and talons. Cindy runs ahead of him, one arm shielding her face while the other manages to grab Emma by the arm as she passes her. Ben ducks as he runs, pushing people forward toward the relatively safety of the inner temple building. He hears a scream and sees Peter fall a flapping bird's beak buried deep in his eye socket. 

“He's at the gate!” Nadia cries as she runs past Ben, a small Finch tangled in her hair.

For a moment, Ben thinks of Harold and a city full of pigeons. Then Ben stops running and turns back. Through the blur of wings and the passing scratches of beaks, Ben sees Walt standing at the temple gate. His face pinches and his stance is of someone about to sprint.

“Walt!” Ben cries. “Please, stop!” He waves his arms, knocking against the flood of birds. “You won't get what you want this way!”

Walt laughs, suddenly focused on Ben. “Do you know what I want?”

“Revenge won't bring your father back. It won't change the things he did or what happened to you.”

“But it will hurt you!” Walt counters.

Ben tries to walk toward Walt, his arms up in a cross to protect his face. “If you want your life back, Walt, then you need to choose something else. Believe me, I understand.”

“Understand?” Walt snaps in anger.

Suddenly the birds cyclone around Ben and Walt. Ben looks up and sees a point of sky high above them. He wonders just how many birds make up the cone around them. How high do they really go? Can Walt keep them moving like this, crazed and injuring themselves? 

“You understand?” Walt continues. “Being abandoned again and again? Finding your father then losing him? Finding a place where you want to stay then having it torn away? No one coming for you, no one caring, no one feeling this.” He puts his hands up to indicate the birds, the power he possesses. “I've always felt this, even before the island, but what did the island do to help me? Only made it worse!”

Ben does not say 'yes, I understand all that.' He does not tell him about his father, about the abuse, about Harold, about loss, about a connection that is not a power but it something different, something rare. He says none of this because youth never wants to be reminded that everything they experience has been done before. Youth wishes to be original when they are really just a repeat, even the special ones. 

Ben says, “It doesn't have to be worse, Walt.” He feels a line of blood dripping down the side of his head but resists wiping at it. “You just need someone to show you the way.”

Walt scoffs and the cyclone of birds starts to tighten, closing in around them. “Who? You?”

“No, Walt.” Ben turns his head abruptly to Hugo now standing with them inside the cyclone. “Me. I can help you.”

Walt stares at him and the birds start to caw, to screech, to howl like animals in pain. “You didn't help me before. When you came back you didn't come see me, none of you did. I came to you and you still didn't help. You abandoned me too!”

Hugo's face scrunches up with regret then he calms again. “And I was wrong, Walt. I'm sorry. I can't change that but I’m here now.” Ben feels the light of the island radiating from Hugo, the birds starting to recede, slowly so the circle around them widens. “I can help you and you can help me. The island is what you need.”

Walt stares at him for a moment then frowns deeply. “Too little, too late, Hurley.” His eyes tick to Ben. “My father deserves revenge.” Then he looks at Hugo again. “And I am going to burn it all down.”

The birds suddenly fall down like hail, all ceasing to fly at once. Ben and Hugo duck at the same time with their arms over their heads. It feels like great clots of dirt thrown over them. Ben worries for a moment they may be buried in bird bodies. Then Hugo grips Ben's arm and pulls them both backward up the steps and into the cover of the arched walkway overhang. They watch for a few more seconds as the birds continue to fall. Then they stop. A number of the birds fly away on their own in confusion, gusts like wind as if they were just waking up. Many, however, lie dead on the ground. The birds are not the only dead. Ben sees Peter twisted at an odd angle near a pair of shredded trees which had been awaiting planting. Another body lies near the far wall though Ben cannot see whom from here, maybe Maggie.

“Talking isn't working,” Hugo says quietly.

“He doesn't want to listen,” Ben replies. “He just wants to hurt us, to attack.”

“What else can we do?” Hugo asks. “I'm not going to kill him.” His voice quiets. “No more killing.”

“At least not by us,” Ben says darkly as they stare at the carnage in the courtyard. Ben worries Walt is becoming the man he was.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

In their frenzied mission to save the New York stock exchange, and the world economy, Harold never foresaw himself fixing an almost obsolete backup generator as part of the process. A Samaritan trap, pinned down in some break room with bullets through the door and Ms. Shaw indisposed by a man in a bomb vest all seem more ‘realistic’ than Harold with a wrench in hand.

Ms. Groves holds a flashlight to give him better lighting as he tightens a bolt on the housing.

“This brings back memories; I took apart the engine of our family's truck when I was a boy.” He thinks of Ben beside as support when their father berated Harold. He wonders if life had gone a different way could Samaritan have been like a sibling to the Machine. “I still remember those basics all these years later.”

“And She remembers the basics you taught her.” Harold looks at Ms. Groves and she smiles. “Save lives.”

Detective Fusco calls over the earpiece and Ms. Groves jogs away. Harold finishes with the bolt then moves to the starter, reconnecting loose wires.

Ms. Groves reappears less than a minute after she left. “Hurry, Harold.” Harold starts the generator and Ms. Groves says, “Cut the cable,” to Detective Fusco.

The four of them hurry down the dim hallway back toward the elevator. They move around large crates toward the doorway into the next hall. Harold sees the freight elevator doors ahead, their escape route. Then suddenly a bullet clangs off the edge of the doorway and they all duck for cover. 

Harold puts his back to the wall while the other three start firing. The take down a number of Samaritan agents, shots flying quickly – a flurry of shouts and noise and bodies falling. John runs out of ammo but Ms. Groves fires again, a woman yelping high as she falls. Detective Fusco crouches low beside her, firing still. Then Harold sees a man make it to the far side of the hall with a perfect opening to shoot Harold. Harold stares and thinks, 'I'm sorry, Ben.'

“Finch!”

John suddenly jumps in front of Harold, hands grabbing at Harold's lapels as the bullet hits John in the back. He falls against Harold and Harold controls John’s fall to the ground. He sees the blood on the back of John’s jacket as John slumps against the wall, slipping slowly the floor.

“I'll keep pressure!” Harold says urgently.

“I'm all right, Finch,” John replies weakly.

Harold wants to shake him if would not hurt John more. He wants to shout that John should not have done that. Above him, he hears Ms. Groves speaking over their earpieces to Ms. Shaw. Harold keeps looking at John, his eyes barely open. He knew the odds were slim, he knew one of them, most of them would die but he wants to do something, to save John now.

“No, we do not have time to catch up.” Ms. Shaw says as she suddenly appears from the hall where they first came from. “Oh, you guys look like crap!”

Harold looks up at her in surprise. “How did you…”

“Had to crawl through fifty yards of air duct. We won't make it that way. No worries, I got a little gift from our guy in the bomb vest.” She grins as she pulls a long brick of explosives from her coat. Harold could kiss her. “I'll take it from here.”

Ms. Shaw steps out into the hall, throws the explosives then shoots them so they erupt over the Samaritan agents. The five of them duck again then Ms. Shaw and Groves begin firing. Harold and Detective Fusco heave John up off the floor and carry him over to the elevator doors while the women lay down covering fire through the smoke. Harold presses the button and the doors respond, opening in front of them.

“You're going to be all right, John,” Harold says with as much confidence as he can manage. “Stay with us.”

“I'm... here...” John replies.

“Good job, partner,” Detective Fusco says.

The two of them step into the elevator and carry John to the back wall. They pull his arms off their shoulders and lay him down carefully.

“Keep pressure on his wound if you can,” Harold says to Detective Fusco. “We'll need to get him to a hospital as soon as possible.”

“Don't I know it,” the detective quips.

Harold moves back to the elevator controls and pops his head around the corner. “We need to go, might not get a second chance!”

Ms. Shaw smiles at him. “Second chances are overrated, Harold.”

Ms. Groves and Ms. Shaw clamber into the elevator and Harold hits the button. Nothing happens. “What the?” He turns around. “The controls aren't responding.”

“The desk,” Ms. Shaw says as she stares out of the elevator at an obvious big red button on the wall. “An override button. Someone has to get to the button and hold them off.”

Ms. Shaw moves forward but Ms. Groves holds her back. “Sameen, if you think I'm going to let you –”

“Oh for God sakes!” Ms. Shaw turns around and stares up at Ms. Groves. 

Harold sees her plan a moment before she does it. He thinks it is only fair and if this is her goodbye then they both deserve it. Ms. Shaw pulls Ms. Groves against her and kisses her quickly. Root stares in surprise then Ms. Shaw shoves Ms. Groves backward. 

Harold and Detective Fusco catch Ms. Groves before she hits the back wall. In front of them, Ms. Shaw slams the gate closed and flips over the lock with her foot. Then she rushes over to the wall and hits the large red button. Ms. Groves jumps away from Harold and Detective Fusco, grabbing at the metal of the gate as if she could simply yank it open. Ms. Shaw fires down the hallway at the returning agenst until a bullet hits her in the side. She grunts and stumbles but does not fall down, still firing. Harold sees one of the Samaritan agents, Martine, who hits Ms. Shaw again. This time Ms. Shaw spins and falls to the ground. 

Ms. Groves starts screaming. Harold grasps her one hand while Detective Fusco grips her other. They pull her off of the grating as the doors to the freight elevator close. Ms. Groves falls to the floor still screaming in anguish. Then the elevator begins to rise.

“Stop!” Ms. Groves shouts. “We have to go back!”

“We can't,” Harold says. He lets go of Ms. Groves and crouches low beside John again. “John, look at me.”

John opens his eyes and stares up at Harold. “Finch...”

“You are going to have to stand again in a minute and then we are getting you to a hospital, stay conscious for me.”

“Shaw, where is she?”

“Don't worry about that now.”

“We have to go back!” Ms. Groves shouts again. She lunges up toward the controls but Detective Fusco gets to her first.

“Stop it, not now!” Detective Fusco pulls her arms back and shakes her once. “You want what Shaw did to have been for nothing, huh?” He shakes her again and Harold sees the pain evident on Detective Fusco's face. “We get away now so we can find her later, all right? All of us dead doesn't help anything.”

“Listen to him, Ms. Groves,” Harold says, as he puts his one arm under John's arm in preparation to carry him. John groans in pain and his eyelids flutter. “It's all right, John, just a little longer.”

“Shaw, we can't -”

“We have to, John. Right now we have to save you.”

Ms. Groves stares down at Harold and John. Harold gazes up at her. Tear lines streak her face and she looks ready to take on the world with one gun in hand if that is all she has. “Please, Ms. Groves, we cannot lose John too.”

Her jaw clenches then she crouches low and pulls John's other arm over her shoulder. The two of them stand shakily, John held between them. Detective Fusco waits at the ready as the elevator stops.

“We are getting her back, Harold,” Ms. Groves says. 

“Let's worry about Mr. Reese,” Harold says carefully.

Ms. Groves turns her head sharply. “We will get her back.”

The doors open and the four of them walk back into the hall, heading toward the rear exit. 

Harold sees Ms. Shaw fall, Martine aiming the gun down at Ms. Shaw's head, he feels the blood on John's back, sees the color fading even more from his face. He tries to focus on moving forward, on getting them out right now. He cannot think about how they are losing, losing people, losing _important_ people, losing this war.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Hugo and Ben sit side by side in the sand. A few of the others fish further down the beach while two people pace behind them holding rifles. Ben does not really expect Walt to appear again, here, but the patrolling provides comfort to the few of them left. At this rate, they will need another plane crash just to people the island.

“There has to be something I can do,” Hugo says. Ben turns to look at him but says nothing as Hugo stares at the ocean. “I’m the protector; I’m supposed to protect.”

“Protector is defensive, not offensive.”

“This is my destiny, the island.” Hugo turns to Ben. “I have powers, don’t I? I see freaking dead people! Why can’t I…”

“Destiny isn't always clear, Hugo,” Ben reassures him with more hope than he feels. “The island may not tell you the way to reach Walt. Maybe it's not about being the protector?”

“What then?”

Ben shrugs. “I don't know, Hugo.”

Hugo sighs. “I just have to make him see reason, to make him listen to me…” Hugo looks at the ocean again. “No matter what.”

Ben thinks ‘no matter what’ has always been a dangerous phrase, filling all manner of scenarios into that ambiguity. Exactly how far is one willing to go? What sacrifices must they make? Ben thinks, for once, he is glad Harold is safe, far away from the island.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Harold and John sit across from each other in Central Park over one of the chessboards. They met here occasionally when they were in hiding so they could always be chess partners that meet from time to time. It might not be completely safe but is anything they do safe now? With one of them lost, the other running away to find her, they have withered back down to two. Harold feels some nostalgia for the old days, when it was just himself and John against the world, saving one number at a time. But now is not then.

“Root will come back, Finch,” John says. Harold gives him a look. John frowns slightly. “Professor.”

“I know she will,” Harold says as he moves one of his pawns forward a space. “It is not her I am worried about.”

“Us?”

Harold laughs with little humor. “I always worry about us.” He gives John another look. “You especially.” 

John smiles fondly and moves a pawn over Harold’s knight then takes Harold’s captured piece off the board. “Shaw?”

Harold purses his lips and looks away. Neither John nor Root believe she is dead and Harold… Harold prefers not to think too in depth on the percentages and likelihood of Ms. Shaw.

“No, Detective Riley,” Harold says as he looks down at their chessboard, not really seeing it. “I worry about the world we live in now, the world I helped create. Is this where I have led us, a war few know about but subversively effects every single person on the planet?”

“You can’t lay all that at your door, Finch,” John says, ignoring Harold’s past worry about names. “We just have to fight.”

“Fight…” Harold repeats.

Harold thinks that the ‘fight’ for them is different from other wars; their fight is quiet and secret but just as deadly. How is it that he is the architect of a war just by creating one of the players? Could he have foreseen the position they are in now on the edge of knife? Harold thinks, for once, he is glad Ben is safe, far away on his island.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Ben hikes back from the radio tower through one of the patches of fields breaking up the jungle. It is just one of his monthly chores, ensure the power still runs and the broadcast line remains open. The resurrected Flame supplies most of their communication now but the radio tower is available as a booster or a back up. It no longer needs to repeat numbers or a cry for help in French. Plus, it makes for some time alone with his thoughts. Lately Ben has been wondering if the Island simply does not like peace. Does it find a way to manufacture some type of conflict to keep itself entertained, be it murder by pregnancy, plane crashes or a vengeful teenager who can control birds and who knows what else?

Ben reaches the crest of the hill before it starts to lead down again into the jungle. He sees two familiar blond heads seated in the grass, right at the spot which gives the best view of the island below. He also notices Zach and Emma are not alone.

“Do you remember your parents,” Walt asks them, “from before the plane crash?”

“Some,” Emma says, the older of the two siblings. “Dad worked with computers.”

Zach shrugs. “Mom yelled a lot.”

“But they loved you,” Walt says. “Didn't they?” Zach and Emma do not reply. “They don't know you are still alive. Don't they deserve to know you are here? Don't you deserve to see them again?”

“The island is our home,” Emma says definitively. “We belong here.”

“My father was killed here,” Walt says.

“And you've killed people here,” Zach retorts, his voice not as strong in his rebuke as he may have hoped. 

Ben sees Walt smile. “Yes, I have. Maybe that's what this island made me, a killer. Maybe that's what it will make you too.”

“Zach, Emma,” Ben finally says loudly. Zach and Emma look up at him. Emma's face appears stern, an attempt at hardness, but Zach is visibly afraid. “Come here.”

Both teens move to stand up but Walt puts a hand over each of their hands. “No.”

They stop suddenly, eyes wide in surprise. Ben does not need to ask to know that Walt somehow holds them back.

“They are still children, Walt,” Ben says carefully. “They don't need to be involved in this.”

“I was a child, Ben, when you stole me off a boat and locked me in a room.”

Ben thinks about Harold, all the people he tries to save. An old part of Ben reminds him that he could walk away; he could turn around and leave Emma and Zach to whatever fate Walt might foresee. 

Ben is not that man any longer. “Then let them walk away. I am right here. I'll come with you if that's what you want.”

“You used me, a child, to get my father to help you. Why shouldn't I use these children to get what I want?”

“And what do you want, Walt?” Ben asks. “Do you even know?”

Walt's face flickers and his hands clench on Zach and Emma's. Ben sees the two of them flinch at the same time. He wonders for a moment if there is something about the two of them like there is with himself and Harold.

“I know what I want,” Walt says, “I just have to decide how to get it.”

“And does that include Zach and Emma?” Ben says. “Zach has been learning a lot about electricity lately. He's been helping to rewire parts of The Flame. Emma has gotten very good at fishing. Not to mention she is an excellent shot.”

Emma giggles. Zach shoots her a look. Walt, however, suddenly sits back on his heels. He cocks his head at Ben in confusion. 

“You could come with us, get to know them, be one of us,” Ben continues, taking a few steps closer. “Work with Zach and Emma here on the island. You could have a life if you give us a chance; if you don't hurt Emma or Zach, if you let them go.” 

Walt pulls his hands up and away. Emma and Zach jolt to the side as through something just dropped them. Emma jumps up and grips Zach's arm, pulling him up too. They run toward Ben and tuck in behind him. Ben has an odd moment of parental feeling toward the two of them and gratitude for a trust he is rarely bestowed.

“You're nicer now,” Walt says as he stands up straight. “I don't like it.”

“Maybe that shows you we can all change and improve.” Ben gestures toward him. “Even you.”

Walt's face spreads into a slow smile. “I think you just helped me decide how to get what I want.”

Ben stares at him but does not feel comforted by Walt's words. “And how is that, Walt?”

“I think I can use you to destroy the island.” He smiles again then turns and walks away down the hill. Ben stays still, Emma and Zach clutching the back of his shirt, and worries that the tipping point is near. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Claire Mahoney reaches out to Harold, tells him she needs help and wants to escape working for a Samaritan she did not truly know about. Then she betrays Harold and tries to turn him over to the enemy with a smile. Harold thinks he let his guard lapse, he let himself trust too easily and that in a war he cannot afford to be just a pillar of morality. 

Harold selfishly wishes he had Ben beside him in this fight.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Hugo stands beside Ben, does not desert him or give him up to the enemy like so many in his past. In fact, Hugo does not see Walt as their enemy but one of them to be saved. Ben thinks that without Hugo his purpose would have been lost, he would have had nothing of his own left to hold onto and that trust is something worth giving to the right person.

Ben selfishly wishes Harold had given up his fight to be happy here with him.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Harold, John, Root and their current number Sulaiman Khan walk down a cement corridor underground. They followed the IP coordinates Root found from Khan’s company after Samaritan targeted him. The question now is what this place is. It screams Samaritan with its sterile walls and secret location in the woods, not to mention the one human agent who appears to be just a 'computer geek.'

Harold sits down at the computer station they find at the end of the hall, John keeping a gun on the tech in the Hawaiian shirt.

“It's diagnostics,” the man says.”

“Diagnostics of what?” Root asks.

“Anti-virus software. It’s scanning the gird; there's a couple hundred new ones every day.”

Harold stares at the screen, a simple map of the world with completed grids searched and lists of data inspection results. There is a status line underneath the map which reads sixty-two percent.

“Samaritan has syphoned off the resources of your company,” Harold says to Khan.

“That is my anti-virus software.”

“All your company's servers have been hijacked, retasked.”

“It's running a scan of epic proportions, a global search.”

“But the results were sent out here.” Harold feels his chest tighten, fear – paternal and alarming in the very quality of his concern – because the reason for the scan is obvious. “It's not searching for a virus.”

“That code.” Khan points at the screen. “Do you recognize that code?”

He recognizes it. Samaritan is searching for Machine, the unique code of the Machine as if it were a virus. Using such a method all but guarantees Samaritan will find the Machine. Harold cannot stop it, cannot shut this program down in the moments they have before agents arrive despite his desire to stay here for days if required to rip the whole program apart. 

“We need to leave, now,” Root says urgently.

Harold stares at the screen. He sees the path, the red and green layers of coverage drawing closer and closer to his creation and he feels helpless. He created the Machine and he can do nothing sitting here watching an analysis which will lead to its death. He should be able to protect the being he made. Did he create the Machine only to lead it now to slaughter?

“Is there another exit?” Root asks the man behind Harold.

“One way in, one way out.”

“Finch.” John flips a gun around in his hand so the grip faces Harold where he sits. “Take it.”

Harold stares up at John and the weapon in hand. He thinks of Shaw at Wall Street, pressing a red button to save their lives. He thinks of Detective Carter and the phone ringing just behind him on the street. He thinks of the Machine saving him from Charles Widmore, giving him Ben's number, leading him to John, protecting him. He sees Root and John standing in front of him, two more people he cannot lose. Harold takes the gun from John. Harold stands up, cocks the gun and nods once at John. John smiles but it is not a happy expression. Perhaps he had hoped, despite the necessity, that Harold would not take the gun.

“What is that? What is that code?” Khan shouts as they start to move back down the hall. No one answers him.

They reach the stairs and climb until they rise back out into the woods and snow. A gunshot hits the tree beside John a few seconds later. All four of them duck and move to cover. Harold and Khan run to the left behind the car while John and Root move into an offensive position to the right.

“That was my software!” Khan says to Harold as Harold peeks around the edge of the car, a bullet hitting the ground near them. “But it's elevated!”

“And then some,” Harold says, trying to see where the shooters hide.

Then Harold sees Martine appear from behind a second car, Samaritan agents following her. Root jumps up from her position and heads straight for Martine.

“That was the work of an artificial intelligence!” Khan continues, gripping at Harold's coat. “What does it do? Who built it? Can it see the future? How does it function?” He pulls harder at Harold's coat. “Tell me! You have the answers!”

Then a tall Samaritan agent walks between Harold and Khan's cover of the car and where John fires on the main force, shoulder up against a tree. Harold wonders, as he raises the gun in his hand, what Ben felt like the first time he shot someone? Harold fires twice, the first bullet missing but the second hits the agent low on the torso. He falls to the snow with a yelp. John's head whips around at the sound to see the agent bleeding in the snow. His eyes lock on Harold's and for a moment he looks more forlorn than Harold has seen him since Joss Carter died in his arms.

Then Root growls high in her throat, John turns back to shooting at their adversaries and Khan shakes Harold once more demanding to know the truth. Harold's vision, however, narrows to a point – the man on the snow, his blood stark against the white. Harold did that, Harold put this man on the ground, lying so still. Harold shot someone.

Another agent appears where Harold's first victim stood. This time the man faces Harold and Khan as opposed to John. Harold feels himself pull the trigger on his gun again; he sees the man fall. John stands right behind the agent, his gun up as well. John watches Harold then his eyes tick behind Harold.

“Where is Khan?”

Harold turns and sees only woods behind him now. He turns back. “It seems my answers were unsatisfactory.”

John nods once then hurries over to where Root straddles Martine. He yanks her up by the arm and all but drags her back toward the car. Harold watches them in a fog, Root shouting something while John keeps pace. Harold's fingers slacken and the gun falls onto the snow. He moves around to the driver's side of the car and climbs in. John shoves Root into the back seat then jumps into the front.

“Go, Harold.”

Harold hits the gas and follows the path out. He moves automatically, drives then out of the remoteness of the woods until they turn back onto the paved road, pine trees thick on either side. Harold stares out of the windshield counting the mile markers until they will reach the highway back to the city.

Ten minutes in, Harold hears John say, “Finch?”

Harold says nothing. He thinks about Ben. The two of them never swapped stories about killing. Harold knows Ben has killed people. The extermination of Dharma was a thorn between them involving poison gas. Harold stopped Ben from shooting a woman in California. 

“Finch...”

However, the two of them never talked about what it feels like to pull the trigger, to watch someone fall, to see them bleed, not stand up again and know it was you.

“Finch, look at me.”

Harold wonders whom Ben first shot. When he worked for Dharma did he ever shoot one of the hostiles? When he joined the hostiles – his people – did he shoot someone from Dharma? Did he know the name of the person he shot or was it an unknown man in a suit and black coat? 

“Finch, say something, please.”

Did Ben feel justified, right even? Or did Ben feel like Harold does, like it would have been better to let himself be shot?

“Harold, talk to me!” John says urgently, suddenly gripping Harold's arm.

Harold looks sharply at John then back to the road. He sees a sign for a Sunoco station in point two miles. “We need more gas,” Harold says.

Harold takes the exit and pulls them into the station. There are no other cars at the pumps. Harold stops the car at the pump closest to the road, pops the fuel door then climbs out. He does not look at John or Ms. Groves in the backseat. Harold walks around the pumps, into the convenience store and up to the cash register. The young girl behind the desk chews her gum and takes Harold's money wordlessly. 

“Pump two,” Harold says.

She nods and clicks the buttons on her cash register. Her nametag says 'Jenny.' When Harold walks back out toward the pumps, John waits beside the car.

“You okay, Harold?” he asks as Harold picks up the handle of the regular, unleaded gas and pushes the button above the label.

“I am fine, Mr. Reese.”

Harold turns back to the car, untwists the gas cap then puts the nozzle of the gas pump into the fuel hole. He squeezes the handle and feels the heavy click of the gas beginning to flow. He thinks of squeezing the trigger of the gun, feeling ignition but not feeling the bullet, barely any recoil on the gun. Harold puts the small metal stay in place and lets go of the nozzle's handle.

“You're not fine, Harold.”

Harold breathes in and out, keeps staring at the rear of the car. He sees dirty snow encrusted in the tire tread. He thinks blood on snow appears darker than he expected.

John touches Harold's shoulder. “Look at me, Finch.” He pulls at Harold's shoulder to turn Harold around. “Please, look at me.”

Harold looks up at John. John does not let go of Harold's arm, grounding him, real, alive, his hand warm and his expression guarded.

“I shot someone, Mr. Reese,” Harold says quietly.

“I know.”

“I understand that it was a fight, that we are in a war, that whoever he was, he was our enemy but...” Harold's eyes shift to the side, to the space between John and the car window. “But he was someone and... and his blood is out there on the snow because of me.”

“He would have shot me if you hadn't, Finch.” Harold looks back to John. John smiles in that careful way he does with a number, with someone scared who might just run away. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me,” Harold says harshly. “I don't want that.”

“Okay, I won't.” John says. “But trust me, Finch. You did the right thing.”

“I shot two people, John. I fired that gun and shot two people, murdered two people who I did not even know their names.” Harold huffs hard and he feels his hand shake. “I have caused the loss of life before; I am not unaware of the results of my actions but this was my hand, John.” He stares hard at John so he will see, so he will understand that for Harold this is the very first time. “This was a gun in my hand.”

The gas pump clicks loudly beside them as it finishes, the tank now full. Harold's turns his head slowly, unclicks the handle stop and pulls the nozzle out of the car. He puts the nozzle back into its dock on the pump then twists the gas cap back in place on the car.

John suddenly grips Harold's hand before he turns to walk around the car. “You did what you had to do, Finch.” He squeezes Harold's hand once. “Believe me.”

Harold looks back at him. “That does not make it right.”

John shakes his head. “No, it makes it necessary.”

Harold worries John is right.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Ben and Hugo walk side by side along the beach. Hugo wanted to check in on Rose and Bernard to make sure the ongoing events with Walt had not harmed them. They were quite surprised to hear Walt returned to the island at all. Ben thinks the island somehow makes sure the two of them have the little corner they need, no problems to interfere with their solitude.

“We've talked about destiny before, Ben,” Hugo says as they walk.

“Yes.”

“What do you think Rose and Bernard's destinies are?” Hugo glances at him. “Just to be on the island?”

Ben chuckles. “I would hope there would be a bit more to it than just the two of them on the island.”

“Dude.” Hugo laughs too. “You'd be the last person I'd think would say something like that.”

Ben shrugs once. “Not everyone comes to the island just for the island.”

“Don’t I know it.” Hugo smiles. “Some come to protect it.”

“As for Rose and Bernard,” Ben continues, “perhaps their destinies were simply each other. If Rose had not met Bernard and followed him on his quest to cure her they may not have ended up here allowing them to live a long life together.”

“You know I never read their file, right?”

“It doesn't matter. What matters is that they are where they want to be, with whom they want to be.”

“Right.” Hugo gives him a sly look. “Don't know if that is mystical or romantic? Are you romantic, Ben, cause you might blow my mind here.”

Ben smiles. “I don't think so but some things can't be denied.”

Hugo glances behind them but Rose and Bernard's house is out of sight now. He turns back around with a vague nod. “They kinda were the only normal couple on the island. Most didn't get a chance; Sayid and Shannon, me and Libby. And that Kate, Jack and Sawyer thing was pretty messed up for a while.”

Ben laughs out loud at that. His life has contained little romance. His passing interest in Juliet carried no true weight in the end. If he takes a good look at himself, his feelings for Juliet were more about nostalgia and control than love, certainly no romance at all. If he had to pinpoint the great loves of his life they would be Alex and Harold. Perhaps Hugo will be one too, another part of his destiny, and not a need for romance.

“Perhaps one doesn't need more.”

“More what?” Hugo asks. “More couples?”

“Nevermind.”

“Do you think this is our destiny?” Hugo asks.

Ben looks up at him. “I think we've talked about our own destinies before. It seems right but we can't ever be sure if the Island is our destiny or not.”

“No, not that, man.” Ben frowns. Hugo gestures between them with a wide smile. “You and me. Were we destined to be together?”

Ben stares at Hugo and wonders, not for the first time, if Hugo's power as the protector is more extensive than Hugo lets on.

“I don't know,” Ben replies. “But I'm happy and that's not something I've said a lot in my life.”

Hugo looks at him sadly for a minute then nods. He knows enough, he does not need to ask for more about Ben’s life, though Ben would give it to him if Hugo asked.

“What about your brother?”

Ben watches the sand. “What about him?”

“I didn't know when I asked you.” Hugo waves in a circle to indicate the past. “When I asked you to be my advisor, I didn't know you had a brother.”

“I didn't realize having family would preclude service to the island.” Ben gestures like Hugo did toward the ocean. “Your parents are still out there.”

“Yeah, but they'll be fine without me. Aren't siblings different?”

Ben instantly thinks 'yes.' “Did I tell you Harold and I are twins?”

Hugo raises his eyebrows. “Like identical?”

“Yes, in appearance at least.”

“Isn't that what identical twins means?”

Ben smiles. “We are somewhat different in personality.”

“But you care about each other,” Hugo picks up. “When you thought he was hurt before you went to find him, to make sure he was okay.”

Ben looks at Hugo and Ben realizes Hugo wants to understand because he has no frame of reference, no brother or sister checking on him, running into danger to seek him out on a mysterious island. Ben smiles fondly and nods. “Yes, we care about each other.”

“But now I'm keeping you here when you could go see him.”

Ben shakes his head. “No, Hugo, that's not it. I want to be here.”

“But...” Hugo glances at the jungle. “But if you were with your brother instead of here you wouldn't be in danger. If I hadn't asked you to stay then you wouldn't...”

Ben touches Hugo's arm. “I believe what Jack said once to your plane survivors was 'live together die alone?'“ Hugo smiles. “It may not perfectly apply but believe me Hugo, I lived on this island many years before you and Harold was alive those years too. It is not some obligation to you that keeps me here. I care about the island.”

“Right.”

“Harold lived here for a brief time. We came here together but we both made choices, we both have our own lives. My life is here, with you.”

Hugo smiles again and nods. “I'm glad.”

Ben thinks, perhaps, the protector is more lonely of a post than a godly one. Would Hugo do well weaving a tapestry alone in a broken statue for years like Jacob? Hugo, the protector of the island, needs people to care about, not just land, and Ben is glad to be one for him.

“Don't worry Hugo, Harold and I will be together again one day but now, now it is you and I and this island which we will protect and figure out together.”

Hugo nods and claps Ben on the back. “Make our own destiny, perfect dude.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“Did you have a good time bleeding out in the snow?”

John blinks several times at Harold, his consciousness still taking its time to rise to the surface. He looks around the bedroom of their Nathan apartment safe house for a moment then peers at Harold again. “Finch?”

“No, John, I'm God.” John frowns as if for a moment he actually believes Harold. Harold raises his eyebrows. “Detective Fusco found you at the cabin, found you unconscious in the snow with a bullet wound.”

“That.”

“Yes, that.” Harold’s lips pinch in anger. “You could have, perhaps, informed someone, myself for example, of where you were going to avoid such a likely and useless demise.”

“At the time –”

“At the time that Detective Fusco found you, you were dying; you would likely have died.”

“But I didn't.” John smiles slowly.

Harold clenches his teeth and must look away. He stares at the windows across from the bed. Sunlight makes shadows with Harold’s laptop on the desk in front of them. He remembers Root telling him in the subway that John could take care of himself.

“Finch?”

“How many times have I sat here beside your bed, Mr. Reese?” Harold says as he continues to stare out the windows at the city buildings beyond. “How many wounds have put you in a bed, covered in bandages and hooked to IVs and rushed through the back door of another hospital to another doctor in our pocket? How many hours have I watched you breathe and wondered when the next round would start?”

“That's the job, Finch. You know what you hired me for.”

“It's not always the job.” Harold turns to look at John again. “Sometimes, Mr. Reese, it is you, your actions, and you know that. Do not imagine you have fooled me. Remember, I found you when you had a bullet waiting.”

John stares at him. “That wasn't what I was doing now, Harold.”

Harold frowns. “You may not have planned it that way, Mr. Reese, but you also did not guard well against it.”

“Finch, I wasn't...”

Harold sighs. “I didn't tell you when you met Ben what is odd about the two of us.” 

John frowns at the apparent subject change. “Other than being twins?”

Harold gives John a look but continues. “Ben and I have a connection and I'm not talking about some kind of familial bond or the mysterious nature people talk about with twins, knowing each other's thoughts or what have you. No, I mean physically. When one of us feels something particularly acutely, be it physical pain or intense feelings, the other one feels it too.”

John stares at him. “What?”

“When Ben was shot through the shoulder with a cross bow, I felt the stab of pain in my shoulder. I knew he was hurt, worse than any time I had felt before, so I flew to him. I sat beside him, helped him because I knew.” Harold frowns at John again. “I don't have a warning bell for you, John.”

John looks at him, surprised, confused but understanding the point Harold makes. “You don't need to worry about me, Finch.”

“It appears I do, Mr. Reese.” Harold glances up and down John lying on the bed with the IV attached to his arm. “I need you alive.”

“I am alive, Finch. I'm right here.”

“Yes, now you are here.” Harold snaps. “I know you are going to fight. I know you need to. You followed a number and almost froze to death in the snow. You jumped in front of a bullet for me at Wall Street. I know you believe you are simply a soldier to sacrifice to the greater war but I do not!” 

“Shaw jumped in front of a bullet too, Harold.” John's voice shifts, hard again. “But there will be casualties. You know that.”

“But you need not willingly be one. You can fight for yourself too.” Harold suddenly grips John's hand on the blanket. “You can promise me that you will not sacrifice yourself for it or for me.”

John stares at Harold for a long moment then shakes his head. “I can't promise that, Harold.”

Harold huffs in frustration. “Then I will promise you, John. I promise you that I will not stop saving you.”

John smiles. “I think that's my line.”

“I saved you first,” Harold retorts somewhat petulant then he softens. He thinks about when he first saw John, a flash in the future in this very apartment seated side by side, the way John looked at him like Harold was the only person who mattered in the world while Harold did not even know his name. “John, please believe me when I say that I need you. I need you here. I want you to see the other side of this war I started.” Harold squeezes John's hand. “Please.”

“Okay,” John replies quietly.

Harold cannot tell if John's response is a lie or the truth or maybe just a hope but Harold takes it because he needs to. Harold cannot keep watching his friends – his family – die because of him.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Someone knocks on the door of Ben’s house at One-fifteen in the afternoon. He stands up from his chair, puts his copy of _Treasure Island_ on the chair then moves to answer the door. Walt waits on his doorstep holding a rifle.

“Hi, Ben.”

Ben stares at him for a beat. “Walt.”

“Time to go.”

“Go where?”

“I’m hoping Hurley can help with that one.” Walt taps Ben on the chest with the end of the rifle. “Want to go to his house now?”

Ben thinks it should feel odd to being doing this in the middle of the afternoon. Should not such dramatic altercations or high stress moments happen in the dead of night, moon in the sky with the howling of wolves? But that is only in films. In truth, Ben’s experience has been that terrible things happen at all points of the day, no matter if you are prepared or not.

“Sure, Walt,” Ben replies. “Let’s go see Hugo.”

Walt backs up a few steps so Ben can step out and walk down from the porch onto the grass. He glances around to see if anyone else happens to be near. What with Walt’s assault on the temple, the rest of their people elected to return to the barracks. However, Ben sees no one as they walk toward Hugo’s house.

“Sorry, Ben,” Walt says in answer to Ben’s looks. “Just the three of us right now.”

“What did you do to them?”

“Just a little fire for them to put out at your communications station.”

“Literally?”

Walt laughs once but does not answer. The two of them stop at Hugo’s house. Ben glances at Walt who gestures with the rifle toward the front door. Ben steps up onto the porch and knocks. Hugo answers quickly with a smile on his face.

“Hey, Ben, what’s up?”

“Well,” Ben says, shifting slightly to the side so Hugo can see Walt. “It appears the three of us are going on a walk.”

Hugo stares at Walt. “Right.” He frowns. “Why are we going on a walk?”

Walt gestures to Hugo with one hand, keeping his finger on the trigger of the rifle in the other. “You’re going to take me to the heart of the island.”

Ben turns to Walt in surprise. “How do you know about that?”

Walt laughs. “You’re not the only one who knows things.”

“Why should I take you there, Walt?” Hugo asks. “You’ve been… upset recently and I don’t think the heart of the island is going to help you. I can’t take you. I won’t.”

Walt puts his other hand back on the rifle, cocks it and suddenly shoots Ben in the arm. 

[In New York City, Harold cries out in pain and falls back against the elevator wall clutching his shoulder. 

Root shifts Caleb’s RAM chips and the drive containing his compression algorithm to her other hand so she can grip his arm in concern. “Harry?”

“I’m fine,” Harold hisses. “It’s nothing.”

His shoulder burns like the time someone shot Ben with a crossbow or when Decima shot him after the trial with Vigilance; but they are trying to save the machine, running against the clock, against Samaritan, against the Machine’s sacrifice to save them. 

Harold cannot help Ben now.]

“Ben!” Hugo shouts and hurries down his steps but Walt keeps the gun trained on Ben so Hugo stops short at the base of the stairs.

Ben stumbles but keeps himself from falling. He claps a hand over the wound, blood wet on his fingers, and clenches his teeth from the pain. He realizes, somewhat surprisingly, this is the first time he has been shot with a gun.

“I can’t hurt you, Hurley, since you’re the protector but I can hurt him.”

“So?” Hugo asks with a grim expression.

“So let’s go.”

The three of them walk into the jungle, Hugo leading the way with little difficulty. Ben finds he cannot remember exactly how they made their way to the heart the first time. When he tries to recall the path the memories fog, unfocused. It must be something about the island. Maybe only protectors can find the way.

Ben keeps his hand over the gunshot wound. It throbs but oddly does not hurt as much as he remembers Danielle’s crossbow hurting. Her rusted arrow would have likely given him tetanus anywhere but the island.

“Lucky me,” Ben mutters.

“Here.” Hugo slows so he walks beside Ben. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and ties it tightly over Ben’s wound.

“Thank you.”

“We can fix it more later.”

“If we get out of this.”

Hugo shoots him a look. “We will. Walt’s not lost yet.”

“He is if he wants to try and put out the island’s light.”

Hugo frowns. “Do you think that’s what he wants?”

“Why else go to the heart of the island?”

“Talking about me?” Walt asks from behind them.

Ben sides steps to glance behind them. “You are a rather pertinent subject right now, Walt.”

“How do you really know about the heart of the island, Walt?” Hugo asks. “Not even Ben knew about it until we all went there.”

“The whispers.” Hugo and Ben both turn and look at Walt in surprise as they walk. “They talked to me the first time I was on the island. They still do.”

“What do they say?” Ben asks.

“They say I have things to do.” Hugo and Ben look at each other. Before they can speak, and tell Walt about his father, what Walt is here to do, Walt taps Ben’s arm with the rifle. “Keep walking.”

Ben has a desire to roll his eyes. How many times in his life has he walked through his jungle led by the point of a gun?

It takes them several hours, but they reach the river as it narrows into barely a creek. Hugo stops, steps out into the water. The three of them see the water lead toward a hole in a hillside. Ben hears the waterfall just like last time. He can see the yellow glow, like a buried sun, coming up from beneath the earth. He wonders, what does it look like inside?

“We’re here,” Hugo says as he looks at Walt again. “So, what now?”

“It’s the power of the island…” Walt says, a tone like awe he cannot control in his voice. “The reason everyone is here, the reason everyone ever came here.”

“And stayed,” Hugo adds.

Walt shoots him a look, angry and resentful. There has to be something they can say to bring Walt around; he really is still just a child.

“If you’re trying to extinguish the light, Walt, you should know it will kill you.” Ben looks at Walt seriously. “Jack died fixing it.”

“And you may have power, man,” Hugo picks up Ben’s beginning. “But we don’t know if that’ll protect you.”

“Even being the protector of the island didn’t save Jack,” Ben continues.

“I don’t want you to die, Walt,” Hugo says with sincerity.

Walt watches Hugo seriously for a moment, completely ignoring Ben. He swallows once then his eyes shift to Ben and his expression hardens. 

He looks back to Hugo. “I’m not the one going down there.” He turns his head and points at Ben. “You are.”

“What?” Hugo asks immediately.

“Do you expect me to extinguish the light?” Ben asks incredulously.

Walt shakes his head with a slow smile. “No, I expect you to become the monster.”

Ben stares in disbelief. He has to restrain himself from laughing. “You can’t be serious.” 

“He is,” Hugo says. His voice sounds strange, old and far away, like Jacob. “That’s how Locke, the other one, how he was made.” Hugo takes a step closer to Walt. “Did the whispers tell you that too?”

“The birds know,” Walt says. “The island remembers.”

For the first time, Ben truly believes Walt could destroy the island.

“Ben will destroy the island for me,” Walt continues. “Isn’t that what people call irony, forced to destroy the only thing you’ve cared about?”

“How do you know I’ll want to destroy the island as the monster?” Ben asks, stalling for time.

“You will. It will make you crazy.”

“Maybe I’m crazy already,” Ben quips.

Walt does not laugh. “This is my plan. You’re going down there.” Walt gestures with the gun toward the top of the waterfall. “I don’t need this to make you. I could throw you in just as easily; you’ve seen it.”

Ben thinks of the cyclone of birds, of Peter and Maggie’s bodies like discarded dolls on the ground. “I have.”

“I won’t let you do that, Walt,” Hugo says as he walks to Ben’s side. “Ben is my advisor; I protect him.”

Ben looks up at Hugo – a man who cares most of all. Ben wants to tell him he does not have to, Ben is not his responsibility, but he knows Hugo would not listen. 

“I could just kill him instead,” Walt says. “Can you stop a bullet? Or I could go to The Flame and kill the people who are left.”

Ben wonders if he should go into the heart of the island what would happen to Harold. If he asked, would the island spare Harold in recompense for Ben’s sacrifice? Would the island kill Ben and nothing more? Could that be the only blessing Ben deserves? Ben looks at Hugo standing beside him, standing _for_ him. Ben has had many failings in life, done many bad things, but he has done good as well and he does not deserve this fate.

“This isn’t you, Walt,” Hugo says. 

“You don’t know me, Hurley.” 

“I know you enough. I know the kid I met after the plane crash. You were excited; you were getting to know your father, helping him build the raft. You were hopeful.”

“Maybe hope died.”

“Then why did you come with us here at all?” Hugo asks. “It can’t have just been revenge. Maybe you came with us because you father was here, because you knew him best here.”

“Or because he is still here,” Ben says quietly.

Walt gives Ben a confused look but he does not rise to Ben’s bait. He looks at Hugo again. “I came here to destroy all this, destroy him, because of what they did to me and my father.” Walt points at the jungle floor. “This place ruined any chance we had.”

“I’m sorry, Walt,” Ben says before Hugo can defend anything. “Your father made choices but I pushed him toward those choices to save myself. We took you from him, we scared you and we never explained why. That was not right or fair and for that I apologize.”

Walt stares silently. Ben sees his confidence wavering. Despite what Walt said when he last saw Ben with Zach and Emma, he appears truly surprised that Ben would apologize or admit to being wrong. Ben sees the gun shake for a moment in his hand.

“I can’t forgive you…”

“You don’t have to,” Ben continues. “You can give me a chance though, a chance to make it up to you, to help you.”

“How could you help me?”

“We both could.” Ben gestures to Hugo. “Hugo understands having a strange power no one else does.”

“I can see dead people, man.” Walt frowns in confusion and Hugo nods. “Yeah, it’s weird, like ‘Sixth Sense’ except they know they’re dead and they talk to me, oh, and they’re not all bloody and stuff.”

“I under….” Ben pauses. He has not told Hugo about what he and Harold share; he never told anyone. “I understand too.”

Hugo turns his head with a frown and Walt narrows his eyes. Neither of them protest, however, simply wait for his explanation.

“I have a twin brother,” Ben says to Walt. “He is the one you saw that time I visited you in the room.” Walt’s face changes to one of realization. “He and I lived here together for a short time until he was taken away but… but we’ve always been connected. I can feel what he feels and he can feel what I feel. This gunshot wound for example?” Ben gestures to his arm. “Harold will have felt it too.”

“Are you serious?” Hugo asks in surprise.

Ben gives him a look. “As a gunshot.”

Walt lowers the gun just a little. “How long have you had it?”

“Since we were born.” Ben shrugs with his good arm. “It’s actually mostly useless except as a warning for the other.”

“I thought the birds were useless too.”

Ben nods. “You may have a point.” 

“What he’s trying to say, Walt,” Hugo says, “is that we get how you feel, scared and confused about this thing, right? You can’t change it, can’t make it go away but the island… the island is weird too, the island is special. So here we fit; we can fit together.”

Walt looks stricken, like he wishes he never started this, never came to the island at all. Or maybe he wishes he never left the island in the first place. “But him…” Walt lowers the gun and gestures in a tired way toward Ben. “What he did…”

“Ben’s done a lot but that doesn’t mean we just kill him.” Hugo looks at Ben. “We give him a chance to make things better instead.” Hugo glances back at Walt. “And he’s been doing pretty well so far.”

Ben smiles. “Thank you.”

“No problem, man.”

“But I wanted to destroy it.” Walt looks up at the trees. “All of it.”

“You don’t have to,” Hugo says. “You have a choice.”

“I…” Walt looks at the water running into the heart. “I came for revenge… I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think things could change?” Hugo asks. “It can, I promise.” Hugo steps slowly forward until he is close enough to put his hand on Walt’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be alone.”

Walt looks up at Hugo. He seems very tired. “I’ve been alone since I left the island… my dad, he couldn’t…”

“It’s all right. We can help you. You’re not alone.”

Walt suddenly drops the gun on the ground and wraps his arms around Hugo. He squeezes hard and breathes deeply with Hugo’s arms around him. Ben watches them, puts his hand over his bullet wound again though it already seems to hurt less. He cannot help but be amazed at the power of words to change ones fate.

[In New York City, Harold stares at a laptop screen, one in a line of many connected to each other in an attempt to compress one of the most sophisticated systems in the world into three dozen RAM chips in a bulletproof box. 

FATHER.

Harold stares at a blue screen, short sentences of text speaking to him, just to him, his creation, saying thank you, saying ‘I’m sorry,’ saying goodbye.

I THOUGHT YOU WOULD WANT ME TO STAY ALIVE. NOW YOU ARE NOT SURE.

“That’s not true… I…”

But it is true, Harold was never sure. How can his creation, a machine – but not a machine at all – know him better than maybe he even knows himself? Nathan would say, ‘because you built it better, Harold, because it cares.’

“I can’t let you die!”

IF I DO NOT SURVIVE. THANK YOU FOR CREATING ME.

Electricity surges into the power station where they hide, following the wires until sparks begin to fly among the line of laptops. Harold sees the energy running down the line toward the box that holds the machine – his daughter. Harold runs toward the box, slams it closed then abruptly flies backward with the electric shock. ]

Ben shouts and falls to the ground, the feeling of electricity in his hands and pain in his arms. It seems he and Harold are in sync once again, inviting and adverting disaster. Hugo and Walt stare at him in surprise.

Ben grins up at them and says, “It’s just Harold, I’m alive. We’re all right.” As Harold looks up at Root and says, “We’re all right. We’re alive.”


	15. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We said we would die together.”
> 
> [Harold and Ben both reach an end.]

Harold sits at his desk in the subway car. He stares at the screen of raw code in front of him as he types. To his right lines of blue lights on the game systems currently powering the Machine keep him company. It must be three in the morning right now. Ms. Groves left him for some sleep several hours ago and good on her. Harold, however, cannot tear himself away.

He sees the Machine speaking to him amid sparks and noise and gunfire.

_FATHER_

_IF I DO NOT SURVIVE_

_THANK YOU_

Harold sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes under his glasses. Then he pulls his hand back, opens his eyes wide and continues to type. The Machine has a myriad of problems now what with decompressing such a complex system. Bugs appeared everywhere almost immediately, even in the startup sequence, the core coding, surveillance, everything he ever taught it. He has to remember the coding he wrote ten years ago, the basics when he was at a zenith of his abilities – before he doubted, before Nathan died, before his body broke.

_He sees the Machine back in the subway, trying to decompress itself onto one laptop._

__

_Fire and smoke and falling onto the cement…_

__

_The burnt, gray innards of the Machine inside its bulletproof box like a tiny coffin…_

_Harold staring at the remains thinking ‘She’s dead, I killed her, She’s dead’ in a giant loop before John and Ms. Groves arrived._

“Okay….” Harold says to himself. “Let’s work on your threat heuristics. It’s what you were built for.”

He needs to ensure the process the Machine learned to identify threats is still intact. They do not want to be chasing wrong numbers or following non-Samaritan leads. Then again, when Harold first built the Machine there was no Samaritan, so can he code the Machine the same way again?

“How’s she doing, Harry?” Harold turns to Ms. Groves leaning over his left shoulder. “No bugs in the boot this time?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. I hoped the patch I put in would work.”

“However, we have enough bugs beyond that to deal with.”

Ms. Groves makes a noise of confirmation. “A mile long.” She pulls up one of the rolling chairs and sits down in it beside Harold. “What are you on now?” She leans closer to the screen. “Analytics?”

“The Machine’s processes for determining threats of national security.”

Ms. Groves turns to him. “Or the irrelevant variety?”

“Exactly.”

“And what about Samaritan?”

Harold frowns as he types another fix into pattern recognition and predictive analysis. “When I first programed the Machine there was no alternate A.I. threat to account for.”

“But this isn’t the first time, Harold. We’re into part two now.”

“Yet it is still the same Machine.” Harold glances at her then back to the screen. “This is the code I first made. I have to build from there.”

“You’re wondering what you should change.”

Harold frowns.

_FATHER… NOW YOU’RE NOT SURE_

“Or should I change anything?”

“She changed Herself. She moved Herself. She wouldn’t be the same no matter what you do, Harold.” 

Harold says nothing. 

Root stands up and paces over to the game systems. She crouches low, pulling her t-shirt down as she does. “She’s an A.I., the whole point is evolution isn’t it?” She glances at Harold as she pulls out one game system which appears to have shut off. “She grew out of what you made Her and that was better, better for Her and better for us.”

“I cannot code what I did not make, Ms. Groves.”

Root sighs as she fiddles with the wires at the back of the system. “I’m not saying that, Harry.”

“What are you saying, Ms. Groves?”

“Maybe She can help us.”

Harold frowns. “She cannot even see us yet.”

Ms. Groves holds out her hand for a screwdriver which Harold hands her. “When She can Harold. She grew, She coded herself. She can do it again.”

Harold breathes in slowly and turns back to his screen. “One step at a time.”

Harold tries to focus on the code, to keep typing and moving forward. He needs to rebuild the Machine, bring back its base and everything it should already know. He can concern himself with the finer points when they reach them. With a complex system, inherently nothing is simple even in the best circumstances. They have a subway car with PlayStations as servers, ten year old memory, two programmers, only one of which helped create the original system, and finite time. For a dark painful moment, Harold misses Nathan so much he has to shut his eyes tight.

“Harold?”

Harold opens his eyes again. Ms. Groves stands next to him. She stares at his face for a moment then pinches her lips. She glances at the computer screen then back again. “You’re not sure if you can lift the limits and advance the Machine’s potential.” Ms. Groves tilts her head. “Is it really a question? We’re talking about Samaritan here.”

“Would you want to change Her?” Harold asks. “You spoke to Her more than almost anyone. Would you want to turn the Machine into something else, something you do not recognize?”

“That won’t happen. She will still be your Machine, Harold.” Ms. Groves smiles in that reverent way she does. “She will still be ours.”

Harold watches Ms. Groves but does not give voice to his thoughts or the fears. Which must he choose as he rebuilds the code, the Machine he made or one which has the tools needed to fight another A.I.? Is it even his choice at all?

\-----------------------------

Ben, Walt and Hugo sit in a line on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. The lighthouse stands vigil to their right. Hugo said something about Jack using the same spot once to think when they arrived. Staring out at the ocean from the Island seems to bring some sense of clarity to many. Ben has done it himself. Perhaps that is just the ocean.

“So tell us about it, Walt,” Hugo says, “your power.”

“You mean the birds?”

“And teleporting,” Hugo says. “Or like, whatever it is.”

“It’s not teleporting.”

“Did you name it something else?”

“I don’t really… I don’t know, it’s like I bring things to where I want them. Like the birds, they work best. Maybe cause they already fly. I can make myself appear too. I remember trying to talk to you guys when they took me.” He gestures to Ben. “But it never really worked; I could see them in the jungle. I remember Shannon but I don’t think they could hear me.”

“But they could see you,” Hugo says.

“Yeah.”

“So it’s like…. Like you make yourself into a hologram?”

Walt frowns. “What?”

“Star Trek, dude.”

“I got the reference.”

“It’s like you’re there but not, right? And with the bird it’s… what’s the thing where you can move stuff with your mind?” Hugo’s eyes rolls up as he thinks. “Tele… something.”

“I mean I don’t just move them. I call them.” Walt fiddles with some of the small grass-like plants covering the ground under them. “I can talk to them. The island too it… it has voices.”

“The whispers,” Ben says. Walt and Hugo turn to look at him as if they had forgotten he was really there. Ben smiles. “They have more to do with you than you think.”

“Not yet, man,” Hugo hisses.

Walt glances back and forth between them but he does not ask.

“In terms of your powers, Walt,” Ben continues instead, “I think there is no problem in a lack of definition. The island cannot be easily defined; your powers need not be either.”

“Hugo’s are,” Walt says petulantly.

“Maybe the talking to dead people part but don’t get me started on being the Protector.”

“Maybe you should get started,” Ben counters. “It might help Walt with what’s to come.”

“What’s to come?” Walt repeats.

“Ben, dude, chill.”

Ben gives Hugo a look. “I think he knows we brought him here for a reason other than to enjoy the sun.”

“Baby steps. He’s just talking to us again without setting birds on you.”

Ben resists rolling his eyes. “Thanks.”

“I’m also sitting right here.”

Ben and Hugo look at Walt between them. He continues to stare out at the sea, the waves crashing hard on the rocks far below them. “I think…” He breathes in slow. “I think I just need to remember the island from when I first crashed.” He looks at Ben which surprises Ben more than anything. “I wanted to stay. I told Locke, I tried to tell my dad. I wanted to stay here.”

“You’re here now, Walt.”

“But…” He looks away, down at the waves. “But it’s not the same. Everyone I knew is gone. My dad is dead. You’re… well, different and so is Hugo.”

Ben watches him, the indecision and confusion of youth still fresh. He looks more like the boy Ben remembers from the room Ben locked him in than the vengeful man who attacked them for months. 

“Yes,” Ben only says, leaving Walt room to think.

“Is this my home now?”

“If you want it to be.”

Walt shakes his head. “I wanted to… I said I wanted to destroy it but I think I just wanted to turn it back, back to when I hadn’t been abandoned.”

“I’m sorry, Walt,” Hugo says. “We shouldn’t have left you.”

Walt smiles for a moment, glances at Hugo then back at the ocean. “So, what do I do now?”

Hugo and Ben catch each other’s eye behind Walt’s back. Hugo grins and Ben nods once. They look together at Walt.

“You come with us, Walt,” Ben says.

“And we can help you make the island home again,” Hugo finishes.

\-----------------------------

Harold walks back down the stairs into the subway with John behind him. They recently left Elias at the safe house after facilitating the reunion between Elias and Bruce. Harold wonders what Bruce will do next but he does not wonder long. When they reach the platform level, Harold’s eyes automatically shift to the Faraday cage.

“Is it still going?” John asks.

“Yes, I have the program running continuously, the Samaritan laptop and the Machine laptop connected through a central computer.”

“Gladiator battles.”

Harold chuckles in a polite way. “Ms. Groves said much the same but we need to know if the Machine can defeat Samaritan in a fight.”

“And what exactly is the score?” Ms. Groves asks as she pokes her head out of her jewel-toned room.

“It is still too early to tell,” Harold says quickly before John can respond. 

He notices John give him a quick look out of the corner of his eye. Harold told John the truth; so far the Machine has lost every fight. Ms. Groves crosses her arms and stares at Harold. He stares back and does not give way. 

She leans against the doorjamb. “You will have to tell me eventually.”

“Give it time,” Harold says firmly.

Ms. Groves gestures with her chin toward john. “He tell you anything?”

“You two are the computer geeks,” John replies in a gruff manner. “Not my area.”

Ms. Groves purses her lips and Harold knows that she knows. She glances at him again. For a moment, she appears as if she might say something, scold him, berate him then she turns on her heel and walks back into her room. Harold stares at the doorway with the bright shag carpet Ms. Groves insisted on using. He is not sure why he cannot tell her yet. Perhaps one of them needs to retain hope.

“Thank you,” Harold says quietly to John.

“Why haven’t you told her yet?” Harold glances over at the Faraday cage and does not answer. “She could help.” Harold looks up at John in question. John looks down at him. “You may have built the Machine but what if Root has a different idea? She did beat you once.”

Harold huffs and looks away again. “Maybe but, as I told Ms. Groves earlier, if anything with the Machine should change it should be the smartest of us that does so.”

“You?” John says in a half serious, half mocking manner.

“The Machine.”

John raises his eyebrows. “It can do that, rewrite itself?”

Harold makes an ‘hmm’ noise. “It was one of the first things it ever learned to do, before I even began to teach it the world it understood itself.”

“Philosophical, Finch.”

“At times.”

“So has it? Will it?”

Harold tilts his head. “The version of the Machine in there is just a minimized copy. If the Machine itself… well, She probably already knows Her odds against Samaritan. Maybe She has already started to recode.”

“You could ask Her,” John says quietly.

“I am not Ms. Groves.”

“No,” John says turning slightly toward Harold. “You’re Her father.”

Harold looks up sharply at John, nearly forgetting his limitation of movement. John, however, does not look away in the face of Harold’s glare. Perhaps John does have a point.

“I should get to my apartment,” John says. 

Harold nods. He knows John does not like his cover identity including sleep in an apartment far away from the people he wishes to keep safe. Harold squeezes John’s upper arm once then nods again. “Get some sleep. It’s late as it is.”

“You too.”

Then John turns and walks back to the stairs. Harold, in turn, walks over to the Faraday cage. He unlocks the gate, steps inside, then locks it again behind him. He steps around the table, sits down in the chair then looks up at the screen. 

Calculating outcome victories  
Calculating simulation: 10117233342

MACHINE: 0  
SAMARITAN: 10117233342

Harold rubs a hand over his face under his glasses briefly. He pulls his hand down again, crosses his arms and fists one hand at his chin. He stares as the number of scenarios ticks higher and higher, the number beside the Machine unchanging.

“Come on,” Harold whispers as if by watching he could change the outcome, the cheerleader to his team, the supportive parent to his daughter in the game.

He watches for another minute before standing again with a sigh. He walks around the table, his hand sliding over the top of the Machine laptop. He unlocks the gate, steps back out and locks it again behind him. He leans back against the gate, his mind spinning over and over feeling absolutely helpless. They cannot win but they must win. The odds are impossible but there is no other option than victory. What can he do? What could She do?

“What do you want to do?” Harold says out loud to Her.

Harold’s cellphone suddenly vibrates in his pocket. Harold stares at the column nearest him for a moment then pulls out his phone with a quick breath. He clicks the screen to light and selects the new text with no sender.

TRUST ME.

“I do,” Harold says quietly. “I promise.”

\-----------------------------

Cindy waves to Ben as he walks into the temple then her expression freezes. Ben hears Emma make a high noise and disappears around a column. Zach stays frozen when he stands, Nadia similarly statuesque beside him. All around the courtyard those remaining watch as Ben walks through the archway, Walt standing beside him.

“Hello,” Ben says with a smile. “I’m sure you all remember Walt.”

“We remember,” Nadia says darkly.

“He shouldn’t be here,” someone says from Ben’s left, either Edgar or Kevin.

“Walt is one of us now,” Ben says sternly, like he is the leader again and not just advisor, someone they might listen to. “He was brought to this island like any of us.”

“You mean on a boat with you?” Emma quips, stepping out from behind the column; the expression on her face is all righteous teenager.

“No, like on a plane with you,” Ben retorts and Emma frowns. “Hugo brought him back again and while he may have erred, he belongs with us.”

Cindy takes two steps forward and addresses Walt. “Are you?” Ben feels Walt shift beside him. “Are you one of us? Do you know what that means?”

“I know this is the only place I have,” Walt replies quietly.

After a beat Cindy says. “Fine.” She glances at Ben and gives him a small nod. Then she looks back to Walt. “Then you had better learn to help out.”

“What?” Nadia snaps. “You cannot be serious! What about Maggie?”

“What about Peter?” Someone else adds and that must have been Robert from the aggression. “He was my…” Robert cuts himself off with a gasp.

Nadia shouts again, “And Maggie had been here almost as long as Ben!”

“He’s not safe,” Zach says, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet. “He can stop you from moving...”

“Enough!” Cindy snaps. Cindy stares at the group for a long moment, sweat on her brow and hands on hips. Ben thinks while they may not have a leader any longer, Cindy does a fair job of approximating the role. “We have all made mistakes in our time, before and after this island but we are all here now, we are all part of this group. The island is our life; that is what binds us together.” She looks toward Walt again though her eyes slide to Ben. “And we all get a chance for redemption.”

Ben smiles back at her. “Thank you.” Though if he is thanking her for himself or Walt is hard to tell.

“Thank you,” Walt also says. “I know… I know I was wrong.” He looks for a moment like he may say more but only shifts his weight, staring at the ground.

Ben thinks, ‘still just a kid,’ with Hugo’s voice in his head. 

“Why don’t you help with the wall repair?” Cindy says to Walt with a small smile. “It was your fault.”

Walt makes a face like choking. He glances at Ben then back to Cindy. He nods quickly and follows her. The moment Walt leaves Ben’s side, Robert and Nadia march up to him.

“I don’t care about redemption!” Robert says in a rush. “When you were the leader there were consequences for killing one of our own!”

“And if he really is one of us then he needs to pay for that,” Nadia finishes.

“But I’m not the leader any more, am I?” Ben replies calmly.

“But you’re the advisor and you can talk to Hugo!” Nadia insists in a hushed voice. “He fucking controls bird and – and – disappears!”

Ben glances at Walt across the courtyard now. Cindy and Matthew are speaking to him, handing him a shovel. The interaction looks stilted and forced from here.

“Walt has a long way to go yet.” Ben turns back to the two in front of him. “But he will come around. So much of his anger was a result of the island. It should be the island that heals him.”

“But Peter…” Robert says in a pained voice.

“I am not saying you have to like him, Robert, or that you are not entitled to your pain. We have all lost people we cared for.” Robert pinches his lips together and Nadia looks away. “But I think our time of vendettas and revenge are past now.”

“So what then?” Robert asks.

“Walt earns back our trust and uses his gifts to help the island.”

Nadia and Robert watch Ben, look at each other then through some silent conversation must accept his words because they turn and walk back toward the temple. Ben wishes he could help them more. He understands their desire. He lived it for three years after Alex and, like the stories say, revenge does not heal the wounds; it only creates more.

“Ben?” Ben turns to Walt beside him once more. “They all hate me.”

“They are upset.”

“Because of what I did but… I can’t… I can’t bring anyone back.”

“No, you can't.”

Walt stares at the people working in the courtyard, planting, building, shooting curious and accusatory glances their way. Walt sighs heavily. “Could I still leave?”

Ben gives him a look. “Do you want to?”

Walt looks up at Ben. “Is this what is was like for you, after everything you did? Is this how you felt?”

Ben stares at Walt for a moment. He wants to tell him that his crimes were different, his reasons and his methods different, but in the end, anger is anger. “Yes.” Then Ben reaches out and taps Walt’s shovel. “It just took me longer to get where you are.” He smiles. “You’ll come out of the other side and not everyone has to like you.”

“I still don’t like you.”

Ben nods. “See what I mean?”

\-----------------------------

Harold walks through the door of their safe house, another number saved. Elias sits on the couch, well enough now to be out of his hospital bed but still on their advised house arrest. 

Elias stands up as Harold walks down the stairs. “Can I tell you something, Harold? ” Harold just stares at him and waits. “The problem with being the one in command is you need to make the hard choices. You can't be selfish.”

Harold tilts his head. “Are you asking me a question or seeking an answer?”

“I'm warning you; sometimes we don't know how much we will lose when we start a war.” Elias looks at Harold intently, the mafia boss, the marked man, just like Harold. “Trust me, Harold; the road is always longer and bloodier than you expect.”

“Trust me, Elias,” Harold retorts. “I have no illusions about the blood on my hands.”

\-----------------------------

“The whispers have been here as long as I have,” Ben says as the three of them sit around the table in Ben's living room, “I don't know how they started to become trapped here or why.”

“But it’s probably about something they did when they were alive, something they are holding onto,” Hugo continues.

Walt looks between them. “So that’s where I come in?”

“Yes,” Hugo says definitively. “I think you can help them. Trust me; I know we can do it even if it won't be easy.”

“Trust me, Hugo,” Ben cuts in. “The island never makes things easy.”

\-----------------------------

“Harold?”

“Ben.”

A phone call always seems too little, lacking, miles and oceans between them. Ben wonders if he should start counting the times they have been together face to face and Harold wonders how many minutes on the phone have still felt wanting. When they have so much to tell, do they not often end up saying too little?

“What happened?” Ben asks. “I felt a bit like a car battery not too long ago.”

“You’re one to talk. Have you been receiving a non-stop volley of exceptionally violent paper cuts?”

They laugh at the same time, same expression, same tone and perhaps a phone call is even more revealing because without sight you have to really listen.

“I’m safe,” Ben says, “things are calm here now.”

“Good.”

“Are you?”

“I’m always calm, Ben.”

“And you always know how to phrase things.”

“A family trait.”

They smile together, turning around in place – an empty subway hideout in New York City and an empty communication station in an unnamed jungle.

“Things are….” Harold stares at the subway car, his computer set up and the Machine’s city view running through a check for their latest number, John hiding with their number in a high-rise while Ms. Groves runs down a Samaritan lead on what she believes is Ms. Shaw and even Detective Fusco said something about ‘underground’ that gave Harold pause. All those he cares about moving closer to danger, closer to an end Harold sees no way around. “Things are more dangerous.”

“Trying to save people can do that.”

“No… It’s… it’s different now. My Machine isn’t the only one. There is another A.I. and I would hardly call it benevolent, the world needs us to stop it and we…” 

Harold and Ben have stopped lying to each other, stopped concealing, yet Harold still wants to protect the most important person he has. Can the island protect Ben from this? 

Harold stares at the cement floor. “We are in a war.”

“Harold, the world is not your responsibility.”

“Ben…”

“We’re not young anymore. We don’t have all the time in the world.”

“I have to.”

“No, Harold, you don’t. There is always a choice.”

“And I’ve chosen.”

Ben stares at the bare wood wall not seeing it, seeing the air, the miles, the ocean, the space between them seeing Harold staring back over the air, the sea, and gaps and the tiled subway wall. 

“Then don’t die on me. Can you do that?”

Harold looks around the subway, John’s cash of guns on a desk and the lava lamp glowing from Ms. Groves’ small room. “I can’t promise.”

“We said we would die together.”

“I know.”

“And we will.”

“We will.”

“Ben?” Ben looks up at Cindy standing in The Flame doorway as Harold looks up at Ms. Groves coming down the stairs, “Harold?”

“Who are you talking to?” the women ask.

Ben has the sudden urge to ask Cindy if she had siblings and if she ever had to save them. Harold wants to tell Ms. Groves that they have a place to run to if they want to give up right now. 

Ben says, “my brother” as Harold says, “Ben,” because they do not hide everything anymore.

“I have to go,” the twins say at once.

“Harold?” Ben says as he turns his back on Cindy watching him with a curious expression.

“Yes?”

“A phone call is not enough.”

“I know.”

Ben stares at their blinking communications board. He wants to tell Harold he would give up being the advisor, give up the island, just to have the two of them live together for once, for more than foggy childhood or two years in a city Ben barely saw. He wants to know his brother in person and not through distant pain or crackling technology.

“Good luck,” Ben says.

Harold stares at his computer on the desk. He wants to tell Ben he is sorry, sorry he built the Machine, sorry he started this fight, sorry for his own ego that made this happen and killed people and threw him into a war he has to see through. He wants the two of them to know each other more, to see each other’s faces instead of distant voices.

“You too,” Harold replies.

\-----------------------------

“I don't think this is going to work.”

“Dude, we just got out here.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Walt glares at Hugo over his shoulder. “They're noises, not things. Not like I can bring them here.”

“That you know of,” Ben interjects. Walt and Hugo both frown at him. Ben shrugs. “You're young, Walt, who knows where your powers might lead.”

Hugo points at him. “Mystical, man.”

“Walt is trying to help whispers of long dead people in the jungle find some passage into whatever comes after death.” Ben raises his eyebrows. “Who's mystical?”

Hugo huffs a laugh.

“And, I might mention,” Ben continues, “they are 'things,' as you put it, Walt. The whispers were people once. Perhaps you could work through that?”

Walt stares at him then shakes his head. “Right...”

The action reminds Ben of Alex. Walt looks away at the trees, wind blowing so the vines sway from side to side. He wonders in what state the whispers exist? Hugo is able to see the dead at points. The whispers seem to come in regards to danger. Are they conscious? Are they a form of ghosts? Does time pass for them as it does for the living? Are they only an echo, not the real person confined to some middle space?

“Hello?” Walt tries. “Hugo said I needed to be here for you.” He flaps his arms up once. “I'm here.”

The silence which follows reminds Ben of when he and Hugo visited the crater, of the Swan Station. 

“Perhaps they are less like pets than we would prefer,” Ben says dryly.

Hugo shakes his head. “Not helping, dude.”

“Hello!” Walt says again.

“Try like when you sent yourself to Shannon that time,” Hugo says.

“What?”

“Your vision act.”

Ben sighs and shakes his head too. Perhaps they need a dictionary of terms.

“They're not alive,” Walt protests. “I don't even know who's out here to talk to!”

Ben and Hugo catch each other's eye. Neither mention Michael.

Walt starts walking west. “Let's try somewhere else.”

The trio walk the jungle for hours. Walt stops every now and then, shouts at the jungle while Ben and Hugo watch. Hugo calls out a few times to ask if anyone would like to talk to him instead. Every time neither of them see or hear results. Ben wonders if it is not something to do with the need for Walt and Hugo to work together.

They stop on the hill not far from the radio tower. As far as Ben knows, no one has died here, not in his time at least. However the view is lovely with the sun beginning to set. Walt sits on the grass, arms around his knees in an obvious teen pose of brooding defeat.

“Give it time,” Ben says. “You've only started trying.”

“Give me a break,” Walt gripes, still not Ben's biggest fan.

“Look man, I don't understand everything I can do and I'm the protector.” Hugo sits down beside Walt. “Like Ben said, you've got time.”

Hugo reaches over and grips Walt's hand. All three of them jerk in surprise at the sound of whispers around them. Hugo looks down at their hands then up again. “Wow.”

“Who's that,” Walt hisses suddenly.

“You can see him too?” Hugo gasps. He turns around and looks to Ben. “Can you see him?”

Ben glances furtively around then back to the seated pair. “I see you two.”

“Awesome!” Hugo and Walt say together.

Hugo stands up, Walt following, keeping their hands together in case it should break whatever communion they have just found. They stare at the air to Walt's left, listening. Then Walt suddenly lets go of Hugo's hand.

“Wait, we... oh...”

“What?”

“He's still here,” Walt answers. “I think I just needed Hugo to make him be seen.”

“I know you,” Hugo says. “You were with Dharma. I was there in...” Hugo laughs after a pause. “Guess it makes sense to you now that you're dead.”

Then Hugo turns and looks at Ben in confusion. “To Ben?”

Ben frowns. “Someone I know?”

“It's Horace Goodspeed.”

Ben's jaw clenches slightly. “Oh.” 

Hugo frowns after a moment. “He wants to apologize.”

Ben blinks. “To me?” Hugo nods. “For what?”

“For what happened with your dad,” Walt says suddenly making Hugo and Ben both turn in suspire. “For what your dad did to you.” Walt looks at Ben now with some sort of measure of pity and horror. “How he hurt you.”

Ben stares hard at Walt. “Did Horace say that?”

“Not exactly...” Walt glances around. “There are memories, he has memories... I can... Wow and I thought my dad wasn't always great.”

“Yes,” Ben says stiffly, “fathers can be difficult.”

“Horace says he wants to apologize because he didn't do anything,” Hugo starts again. Ben's eyes switch to Hugo now. Hugo frowns but obviously repeats what Horace says. “He says, he knew what was happening to you but he just ignored it and he knows that if he'd tried to help you. Then maybe you wouldn't have done what you did.”

“Joined the hostiles?” Ben says, speaking in Horace's' terms.

“He says he's sorry he didn't try to help you because you were a kid and must not have thought you had a choice and he should have done something about Roger.”

Ben swallows. When he was young he thought no one knew. He thought if someone knew they would have helped him. By the time he was old enough to know what turning a blind eye meant he was already part of his people and already saw all of Dharma as nothing but a threat. It did not occur to him that someone, someone like Horace, may have known from the start, may have known about him, his mother, but considered it none of their business.

“Thank you,” Ben says.

Walt walks closer to Hugo, and possibly Horace. He reaches out as if he may be able to touch the whisper of Horace speaking to them. His fingers flutter and his head tilts.

“Trying to change the world...” Walt mutters. “An island like this...”

“Whoa...” Hugo mutters.

“What?” Ben asks.

“I can't really explain it but it's like they're... like they're together? Like possession but not evil all Exorcist style.”

Walt's eyes grow wide for a moment, his hands clenching and his mouth opens like he is screaming. Hugo and Ben both take a step forward to stop this, to stop whatever is happening. The wind suddenly rushes around them, Ben hears the squawk of birds but none appear. Walt takes a large step backward and he relaxes, the wind stops, the only sounds of the jungle are the usual rustle and tweet.

“What happened?” Ben asks.

“Are you okay, Walt?” Hugo asks a second later.

Walt looks at them both for a long moment then he smiles, the first genuine smile Ben as seen on his face since he came to the island. “I did it. Horace is okay, he's gone, he... the whisper moved on.” 

Walt laughs like a snap and hops once on his heels speaking now in a rush. “It was like I could feel with him, his part of the island, his connection, what he felt in his life here, just like a rush and then I thought about leaving, leaving the island behind and boom!” Walt claps his hands. “Horace went, like how I make the birds go or how I would try and move myself to see people on the island. Instead I sent Horace away to wherever he's going next! Just gone, like that.” He snaps. “We were together, then not, and Horace moved on. Whoa!” 

Walt laughs again and suddenly runs over to Hugo, hugging him hard. He pulls back once more and hops again. “I did it!” He looks at Ben and waves his hands at him. “I did it! Did you see that?”

“I saw,” Ben says still slightly perplexed.

Walt sways for a moment then leans heavily against Hugo. “Oh, I'm tired.”

Hugo laughs. “Uh, yeah, I guess you would be. You kinda exorcised someone.”

Ben shakes his head. “I think we need a different word for it.”

Walt grins up at Hugo. “We did it, right? Together.”

Hugo nods at him. “Yeah, dude.”

Ben watches the two of them as they start to talk. Hugo says something about how he sees them, talks to them while Walt mentions feelings, a bond with the island. Ben thinks about Horace's words, 'I should have done something.' Not many people have ever felt the need to apologize to Ben. Ben smiles.

\-----------------------------

They receive a number for a freelance software engineer who specializes on recoding and debugging old systems to fit with modern advances in technology.

“It connects to Samaritan, of course it does,” Root says ten hours into their rescue attempts for Clara Bode.

Harold joins John in the field because Clara has code, code her mysterious client gave her to attempt to pair with another code. Both appeared equally alien in Clara's experience. Clara, however, is as paranoid as Harold and far more mobile. She will not do such conversations over the phone or internet; so Harold comes.

Harold and Clara end up on their own in the empty kitchen of a family owned restaurant in Little Italy, two laptops on a metal counter top.

“Do you see?” She says as she pulls up her files, scrolling quickly and pointing at the screens. “This is advances beyond any evolutionary system developed at present yet they told me it was old!” 

Harold sees the Machine, code he remembers writing. The second laptop is different, not his creation but Arthur Claypool's. Harold wants to snatch the computer away and run, a chance at core code they have not had yet. 

Clara talks on, “How can this be old? It just can't be, but the encoded dates –”

Suddenly someone shoots Clara from behind, the bullet passing straight through her and smashing the laptop screen. Harold turns instinctively, sees a flash of red hair and a familiar face then drops to the floor. He grabs a metal pan as a shield and moves. Another gunshot clangs above him with the spark of the second computer destroyed. Harold keeps low as he hurries, hears John shouting in his ear, moves toward the back door because he cannot die now, not here, not alone. A bullet hits Harold's cast iron pan making Harold drop it but by then Harold bangs through the rear door into the alley. Harold slams his back against the wall, breathes heavily in and out. Then John appears at his side – his knight in a black suit – grabs Harold by the arm and pulls him away, shooting over their shoulders.

Harold thinks all their chances are growing shorter, slimmer, and perhaps the fact Harold still lives is an astronomical anomaly at this point. 

“You can't die on me, Harold,” John says sounding just like Ben. If nothing else showed it, the fear in John's voice proves their danger is all encompassing.

\-----------------------------

Tears run down Walt's face as they stand in the jungle, light outside this time instead of dark. The whispers do not care about the time of day.

“She's been here so long,” Walt whispers the same as the sounds around them. He paces to the right and tilts his head, quietly says. “Je veux aller a la maison...”

“Tell her we can help,” Ben coaxes because sometimes now Walt loses himself, the feelings of the whispers washing over him, threatening to drown him. Perhaps that was the danger they were unaware of with the whispers, becoming one.

Hugo steps up beside Walt and touches his hand. Walt shivers and looks up at Hugo.

“It's been long enough,” Hugo says now, “You can't help Danielle or Alex anymore.” Ben realizes Hugo speaks to the other woman from Danielle's boat, the first to die. 

Walt nods, “Laisser partir.”

Walt balls his hand up into a fist for a few seconds, his eyes closed – the wind, the jungle around them all stop moving, like silence but more like the world has paused. Then a sound like gasping close to Ben's ear, to all their ears – every whisper happens differently, the island reacting – and Walt abruptly sits down on the ground. 

Ben glances at Hugo. Hugo watches Walt for a moment as he breathes then Hugo looks up at Ben. Hugo smiles wide and his expression is half mystical, seeing more than Ben can, but all happiness. It is the look of hope.

\-----------------------------

Harold follows Ms. Groves and Ms. Shaw down through the snack machine door and into their subway hide out. Ms. Shaw and John spent a bit of time arguing in the car before John disappeared with Fusco back to the precinct. It sounded like John wanted to offer Ms. Shaw his cover’s apartment for some place more comfortable for her to recuperate. Harold is not sure why John tried. John knows as well as Harold that ‘comfort’ for Ms. Shaw lies where ever Ms. Groves is.

“Doesn’t look like you redecorated much,” Ms. Shaw says blandly as she steps back onto the platform. Then stops, her eyes gazing toward Ms. Groves room. “Is that a lava lamp?”

Suddenly, Bear bounds up beside Ms. Shaw and Harold sees the first big smile on her face since Root led her up to the rest of their group at the park, finally returned and free from Samaritan. She crouches down and rubs Bear’s head. “I missed you too.”

Harold smiles at the reunion, Bear’s tail wagging emphatically. Ms. Groves glances at Harold, a smile on her face as well.

“Why don’t I get you some fresh clothes, Shaw?” Ms. Groves touches her shoulder so Ms. Shaw looks up at her. “These are starting to get that ‘five day stake out’ look.”

Ms. Shaw stands up again as Ms. Groves walks away. Harold and Ms. Shaw stare at each other. She appears raw – red eyes, sickly pallor to her skin, a tension in how she stands, a look that says she still does not believe the rest of them are flesh and blood.

“Ms. Shaw, I must apologize,” Harold says in something close to a rush.

“For not saving me?” Ms. Shaw asks.

Harold’s jaw clenches. “Yes.”

Ms. Shaw swallows once, her hand idly reaching for Bear as he butts his head up toward her. “Well… South Africa is far away.”

“Even if the Machine had… we looked but…” Harold rarely finds himself at a loss for words. He does not ramble nor stutter. He says what he means to say or he says nothing. Harold breathes out slowly and looks Ms. Shaw in the eyes. “I believed you were dead.” Ms. Shaw only raises her eyebrows. “Mr. Reese and Ms. Groves held out hope, they insisted we search for you and I went along but I believed you died at Wall Street. I should have had more faith.”

“A long time to hold out on faith, Harold.” Ms. Shaw tilts her head. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t have if Root didn’t get that message to me.” Ms. Shaw smiles for a moment. “Four alarm fire.”

Harold watches her, not a reference he understands but he is not privy to every facet of the two women’s relationship, with good reason.

“You were the one incarcerated,” Harold says. “It was our job to aid you, not abandon you.”

Ms. Shaw stares at him for a long moment. Harold wonders if she blames him. He is the leader, as much as they have one. The leader makes decisions and this leader, Harold, gave up on her from the start. Even if Ms. Shaw should perhaps blame the Machine for which they fight, Harold is the man who built Her.

“Root told you about the simulations, what they were doing to me?”

“She did,” Harold replies simply. He wants to ask her details, what Samaritan may have learned from the simulations, what they felt like, anything she could have learned about their enemy in turn but even Harold knows now is not the time.

“I murdered you in those simulations, Finch.” She smiles but the expression is empty, not happy or sad nor is it her usual diminished emotions; the expression is scarred. “Not every time. Sometimes I only killed Lionel or John. Sometimes I never made it to you at all. Sometimes John would kill me first when I tried to kill you. Sometimes you were the very first. But I did kill you. I shot you over and over, Harold.”

Harold stares at her and says nothing.

“It was strange but almost every time you reacted the same way. Lionel and John, they were all over the map; shoot outs, surprised or angry, slow, quick…” She stares past him at seven thousand simulations Harold cannot see. “But you.” She looks at Harold again. “You always apologized. You didn’t always say it the same way but you always did, every time. You apologized to me… for putting me into that position, for getting me involved. You apologized to me.” She shakes her head. “Why would you do that?”

“They were simulations, Ms. Shaw, meant to manipulate you, to force you to give away what Samaritan wanted to know. It was not me.”

“But why would they choose that, why would they think I would lead them to the subway or the machine through you apologizing?” She does not sound angry now, just confused. 

Harold wonders the same. How much could Samaritan know about their personalities, how much could it use Shaw to fill the worlds it created for her? 

“And then,” Shaw continues, “the first thing you do when we are back here is apologize to me.” She makes a face. “Are you really here or is this just one more simulation?”

An unusual part of Harold, not one usually for touch, wants to reach out and comfort her; he wants to reassure her that he is real.

“I am apologizing for something different, Ms. Shaw, and you are not about to kill me. I imagine the horror of those simulations was how close they were to reality. Perhaps if the situation did occur between us that is exactly what I would do but that does not make this a simulation now.”

“Why, Harold,” she insists. “Why apologize to a traitor?”

“You are not a traitor, Ms. Shaw, no matter where we all end up.”

“Even though I shot you?”

Harold sees Ms. Groves walking back with a stack of clothing in her hands over Ms. Shaw’s shoulder. “You have not shot me yet, Ms. Shaw.”

“Hey.” Ms. Shaw turns at Ms. Groves’ voice, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. Ms. Groves smiles carefully. “Think you can change into something cleaner?”

Ms. Shaw nods and walks toward Ms. Groves’ room, Ms. Groves keeping a hand on Ms. Shaw’s shoulder. When they reach the doorway, Ms. Shaw turns and suddenly kisses Ms. Groves, knocking the clothes to the floor, and pushing Ms. Groves back into the room where Harold cannot see. He thinks now would be a good time to retreat to his university office and grade some papers. Harold walks over to the subway car and picks up his briefcase. He pauses for a moment and looks up at the Machine’s screens, their open system.

“Why didn’t you tell us she was alive?” he asks quietly.

NOT SAFE.

“For who?”

ALL OF YOU.

“I believe Ms. Shaw would disagree.” Harold looks down, thinks of Nathan – always Nathan who deserved better, who deserved Harold paying attention, who the Machine knew to try to save and Harold missed. Harold looks back up, his expression hard. “Didn’t you learn from my mistake?”

Then he turns and walks out of the car, toward the stairs to leave the women to their much-deserved reunion.

\-----------------------------

Hugo, Ben, Walt, Cindy and Zach move about Ben's house in a manner almost busy but mostly energetic. Walt and Zach swap stories about the plane crash of Oceanic 815 for about an hour while Cindy corrects obvious errors in terms of normal flight procedure. Hugo, seated beside Ben, mostly watches and chuckles at the dramatics time will create out of real life fear. Ben considers mentioning the view from land, their plane splitting like a Christmas cracker, but feels he should not intrude. The two boys might decide to swap kidnapping stories instead and Ben prefers to avoid that era in conversation.

“I'm sorry, about your parents,” Walt says as some sort of end to the discussion. “Do you miss them?”

Zach shakes his head. “No.” He glances at Cindy then shrugs. “I think I'm starting to forget them.”

“Yeah...” Walt's expression changes. “I'm worried I'll forget my father eventually.”

Hugo turns suddenly to Ben. “It's time.”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “Time... right now?”

“Walt.” Walt turns to Hugo. “Can we talk?”

Cindy glances at Ben and he shakes his head, points with his eyes toward the door.

“Zach?” Cindy starts. “Mind helping me out in the garden?”

Zach looks between all the adult then frowns. “Fine.”

Walt stares at Hugo and Ben from where he sits at Ben's table. He looks back and forth between them then settles on Hugo. “What is it?”

“About your dad.”

“I know he's dead, Hugo.” His eyes widen suddenly. “Have you seen him?”

Hugo nods. “Yeah, he helped me a few times. The point though, Walt, is that you need to see him too.”

“You know that doesn't work unless he's a whisp–” Walt suddenly cuts himself off and his face cycles through a myriad of emotions at once – confusion, realization, frustration then urgency.

Walt jumps from his seat and runs through the open front door. “Dad!” 

Ben and Hugo jerk up with surprise, following a second later out onto the porch. Cindy and Zach stand frozen by the garden. Cindy looks at Ben in confusion but he has no answer to give her just now. Walt runs through the barracks toward the jungle still shouting.

“I think we should probably chase him,” Ben says.

“Right.”

Hugo and Ben hurry off the porch and follow Walt. They catch up to him just before the jungle tree line. He turns as soon as they are within shouting distance.

“Call him, Hugo!” Walt says.

“It doesn't work like –”

“Just call him!”

Hugo looks to Walt's left then walks over until he stands beside Walt. “I don't need to.” He grips Walt's hand.

They do not always need to touch any longer for their combination of powers to work, for Hugo to talk to the whispers and Walt to feel with them and let them go. It is never entirely clear who does what, how the spirit finds it's rest but the two always work together. Now Walt yanks his hand away despite his rush and shouting. He turns around, marching away again, breathing hard but Michael must follow him because Walt stops in his tracks.

“Why haven't you come sooner?” Walt asks. “Why haven't you talked to me? Why... why did you leave?”

“I'm sorry, Walt.”

Ben starts in surprise because he hears Michael too. He glances at Hugo in wonder then back to Walt. Perhaps it is the familial bond or Walt's distress which makes this time different because even Ben discerns a slight haze, the memory of a memory of a person standing in front of Walt. It reminds him of the time he saw Harold in the room at the Hydra.

“I can see him,” Ben whispers to Hugo.

“Dude...”

“I did a lot of things wrong, man,” Michael says. “I didn't fight hard enough for you when you were a baby. I let your mother take care of you and when I finally got you back... I didn't know what to do. I guess I kept fighting even when there was no one left to fight.”

“You killed people, dad, and then with grandma...”

“I was messed up, Walt. That wasn't your fault. I thought I had to do anything to get you back but... but I didn't always do the right thing.”

Walt shuffles his feet then looks up again. “Did you know? About this, about what I can do?”

Michael laughs. “I wish! Though I might not have believed you before.”

“No one did.”

“But look at you, you're... you're grown up now and I'm not a part of that.”

The whispers rise around them, like other dead condemning or supporting Michael, Ben cannot tell.

“I was growing up when we left the island.” Walt's face turns sullen. “Didn't help us much.”

“I know. I couldn't see that. I could only see what I'd done.”

Walt shakes his head. “You needed to save me, I know that. I get it; I wanted you to come get me but... I don't know, you'd changed. When we got on that boat and left everyone else behind and I just... I felt like I didn't know you.”

“This island did a lot to both of us.”

Walt's voice hitches. “I hated it because it took you but now it's...”

“I know. I'm sorry you had to lose me too. I should have been stronger for you.”

Walt stares at the haze, his father, this ghost for a long moment. He nods once then steps closer so he touches the specter. “I forgive you, dad.”

“You can forgive me, forgive all this, all I did?” Michael says and Walt's voice mingles with his, “Yes, you tried, yes.” Their voice overlapping and twisting. “I wanted to give you more,” “you gave me this.” Walt smiles and the haze starts to disappear. “Thank you, thank you...” And Ben is not sure which one of them speaks.

Then the trees creak around them, swaying and whispering at once. Walt turns toward Hugo as if to speak then he drops his head. The trees suddenly stop moving, everything silent then rain starts to pour down on them. 

Walt looks up at the sky and begins laughing. “He's all right. He's gone, He's all right.”

The rain soaks all three of them in less than a minute but Walt keeps laughing, smiling; Walt letting go as much as his father, the most peaceful expression on his face. Even Ben feels a sense of peace as he watches Walt grinning into the rain.

\-----------------------------

Harold feels absolutely anything but peace. His friends all on the line, all working and fighting to save him. Harold is their number, Harold was carless, Harold is in danger – he is the danger. Why did he let his happen? He has always been so careful. He has hidden in some form since he was eighteen. Why did he let this happen now?

Ms. Groves drives and shoots and someone shoots at them as they attempt to flee before the police stop them. 

“Are you hit?” Harold asks.

“I’m fine, Harry,” she says and Harold knows she lies. “I’m just fine.”

Then the police yank open the car door and pull at Harold’s arms. Ms. Groves' body slumps forward over the steering wheel in perceived slow motion. Her eyelids start fluttering in a way that says her consciousness is fading.

“Root!” Harold shouts but the officers pull him away toward a police car now. He tries to keep sight of her around the car but the uniformed officers block his view. Then he sees her, eyes closed, two men pulling her slack body from the driver seat. “Wait…” He plants his hands on the doorframe as the officers try to force him into the back of the car. “Wait, my friend.”

“Get in the car, sir,” one of the police officers says gruffly.

“Is she all right?” Harold asks insistently.

The man, however, keeps shoving, puts his hand on Harold’s head to try and force him down. He sees Ms. Groves carried in the opposite direction toward an arriving ambulance. Harold sees a hint of blood now and instinctively, he knows that Root just died for him. Then they bang his head against the edge of the door as they shove him into the rear of the car. Harold hardly feels it because he cannot stop staring at Root as they carry her away alone.

 

Harold sits in the interrogation room. It reminds him of the time he helped feed information to Detective Carter as she pretended to interrogate John. It reminds him of watching Detective Fusco siting at his small desk at the eighth precinct. It reminds him of a cold, blank world he has helped to create; the empty gray walls and the camera in the corner, every line and tile, every sterile space that would be perfect for Samaritan’s building of a conforming world. The room screams at Harold to burn everything down.

The door to the room suddenly opens and a suited obvious G-man about ten years Harold’s senior walks in. He sits down across the table and says, “Harold, that’s as far as we’ve got, 'Harold.' That and a file number, well a lot of file numbers.”

Harold thinks about the very first time he broke the law, the computer he made himself after a few times of catching fire and the joy of finding himself inside a government system. He did not think about it as breaking the law then. Even now, the law and what is right are very different to Harold. He always felt most people would agree with the reasons behind his actions despite how they might be seen under the law. Doing what is right was supposed to be the saving grace. But really, what do reasons matter, especially in a Samaritan world? The rules are made by those in power. Samaritan is in power. 

Yet, Harold has power too; he has a power he can use. He has the Machine, he has himself with all the ruthlessness he could code and decode waiting in his fingertips. So why listen to the rules, why follow any rules? Why hinder himself with rules? In the end it was the rules and limits he placed on his Machine that hurt Her. Now perhaps the same can be said for him; following the law, following principles, following his own rules have done nothing but harm his friends, kill Nathan, kill Root and keep Ben far away from him. What has Harold gained in taking the high road but pain?

“Luckily in treason cases,” the man across from Harold finally says after his discourse on the loss of digital files, “they keep the files. I’ve got an agent headed to Washington with a flashlight. It’ll probably take him a couple hours to dig yours up, unless you want to save him the time?”

“My friend, the one in the car with me, she’s dead.” It is phrased like a question but Harold does not truly ask as he stares at the bland metal table.

“Well, I could find out, tell you what happened, if you have something to say to me?”

Harold sees Root’s face in the car, her boot on the wheel, the tone of her voice. He remembers her holding Ms. Shaw in her arms, wearing a smile so unlike the half manic ones they usually saw. He remembers her seated beside him as the Machine came back to life, chains cast off, right before their eyes. He sees John barely alive in the snow; he sees Ms. Shaw war torn back from Samaritan; he sees Elias shot right beside him; he sees Detective Fusco in a hospital bed; he sees Detective Carter bleeding out in the street; he sees Grace blindfolded on a bridge; he sees Nathan smiling at him from across a ferry queue saying ‘I knew you would come, my friend’ before an explosion erupts behind him. Harold sees wreckage and blood and pain and a stack of bodies in his wake.

“I have played by the rules for so long…”

“Not from where I’m siting,” the agent retorts.

Harold barely hears him. “No. Not your rules. You work at the behest of a system so broken that you didn't even notice when it became corrupted at its core.” He shifts his eyes to stare directly at the agent. “Do you need me to list the times the government, the FBI, have committed atrocities in accordance with their ‘rules;’ How the laws have been broken and changed, shifted around because a president wanted to listen in on his opponents or the US felt another foreign government was not quite to their liking? Your rules have changed every time it was convenient for you.”

“I was talking about my rules.” Harold stares at a space not there, at a road he now must take, the burning road. “I have lived by those rules for so long. Believed in them for so long. Believed that if you played by the right rules, eventually you would win. I left the most important person to me behind to live by the rules I thought I needed, the way of the world. I rejected him time and again because he broke those rules. But maybe he was right all along?” 

Harold shakes his head and feels more in tune with Ben in this moment than he ever has in his whole life. Ben would understand the need to take the harder path, the path of devastation to save the many, to protect what is left of the good in his world by crushing those in the way without mercy.

“All the people I care about have been hurt because of my rules, have died or will die because I followed these rules. So I could keep following my rules or I can break them.” His voice is harsh and raw and he thinks about nothing else but watching the circuits and servers and mind of Samaritan crumble and wink out. “I can burn everything down on my way to you and not stop until I kill you. I can break every rule I need to until I get it done.”

“Look,” the agent says with annoyance, “you want to add threatening the life of a federal agent to your file; I will draw up those charges right now. No waiting is required.”

Harold looks at him with a frown. “I wasn’t talking to you.” Then he stares at up at the surveillance camera – at Samaritan – watching, listening to the message Harold meant just for it.

The door to the interrogation room opens again and another agent whispers in the G-man’s ear. They argue for a moment then the new agent leads Harold out of the room back into the hall. They walk over toward the bars for general holding then wait. Someon calls the agent beside Harold back suddenly leaving Harold alone. The payphone beside Harold starts to ring. He turns his head, stares at the phone and knows who waits on the other end of the line before he picks up.

“Can you hear me?”

Harold balks and has to swallow hard at the unexpected sound of Root’s voice. “She’s dead?” he asks even though he knows.

“Only in body,” the Machine says, “I chose her voice.”

Harold clenches his teeth and decides, for sure, that the rules no longer apply to him – he wonders if Ben would agree with him or not.

“This place,” he says to the Machine, “can you get me out of it?”

“You created me,” She says, “I can do anything you want me to.”

The lights all around Harold go out. He hears the distinctive sound of a heavy gate unlocking. Officers on the one side of him start to shout in alarm while on the other side prisoners begin to cry and cheer in surprise.

“Through the first floor of holding, down the steps then out the back, Harold,” She says. “Just follow the flow of criminals.”

Harold hangs up the phone, turns to his right and opens the gate into holding. He walks past the various holding cells as those inside start to realize the possibility of freedom. People appear at his side then disappear again, the sounds of a struggle start behind him as police grabble with those escaping. Harold keeps on walking, straight though it all in the dark, red emergency lights glowing above him. 

He reaches the door to the back stairs and starts down. A large group of men thunder past his slower progress, a woman catches his shoulder as she goes by him but no one stops. Harold hears gunshots above him, a high scream and a cheer of satisfied anger. Three floors down Harold reaches the back exit. He catches the door with his hand as another prisoner runs out before him. Then he is out into the damp night air again. 

In front of him, people run into the night and behind him an alarm blares while the sounds of shouts grow louder. It sounds like a horror movie, incoherent and chaotic. Harold feels like the villain, the serial killer, he feels like a justified, avenging monster. 

\-----------------------------

Walt and Hugo work together. Most whispers need a voice, someone to understand, someone to talk to before they can atone or forgive or let go. Ben remains only a witness. Each time the pair of them speak to someone long dead, let them move past the island's traps, the sun seems to shine brighter, the breeze cooler, the rain a welcome cleanse. The island just feels calm. No one shoots at each other, no one waits for an attack. They all live. Ben sees it on everyone's faces. Hugo as protector gave them choice and happiness. Walt as the island's 'exorcist,' for want of any better term, gives them peace. 

Except Ben.

Ben feels tense, upset. He hears a buzz in the back of his mind, like he is racing toward something, like he is being pushed by a mad frenzy he cannot control, a mix of emotions that cannot untangle themselves - anger, fear, determination, resolve, pain, guilt – entirely wild.

Something is very wrong with Harold.

\-----------------------------

“Kelly Air Force Base,” the Machine says in Harold’s ear through Root’s voice. “If you had to pick a government facility to infiltrate, Harold, this one certainly has some areas of interest for you.”

“Or means of last resort.”

Harold holds up a security badge to the access reader and the Machine beeps him in. Harold walks down the back hallway, no security alerted to his unusual access yet. He makes his way toward the SKF server room. It reminds him of IFT, corporate hallways leading to rooms full of rows and rows of servers.

“When Nathan and I were first coding you, your mainframe was in a building not unlike this. Perhaps lacking the armed guards and military hierarchy.”

“I suppose most server rooms look similar if you’re concerned with only the nuts and bolts but it’s what’s inside that counts, right?”

Harold smiles. “Yes.”

He turns a corner and stops at a door. He puts down his briefcase then opens the keypad access to the server room. He jimmies off the keypad facing to the wires and sensors below. It takes him a few minutes but he manages to reconfigure the programed code into a reboot stage. He replaces the keypad facing then hits zero six times. The door unlocks.

“I could have helped you,” the Machine says.

“Sometimes it is best to do things one’s self.” Harold opens the door, walks through then closes it behind himself again. “And it may be better if you spend less time inside this facility’s systems. I wouldn’t want you accidentally becoming caught in any of programs housed here.”

“I’m a big girl, Harold. I know what to avoid.”

Harold nods to himself. “I’m sure you do.”

“Excuse me?” Harold watches as the staff member inside the room briskly walks toward him. “How did you get in here? You don’t have access.”

“He has a weak left knee,” the Machine says.

“Oh, I am so sorry. I just got a new badge,” Harold says, “I must have –”

Then he cuts himself off as the man reaches a close enough distance. He quickly crouches low and hits the man hard in his left knee. The man cries out in pain, falling down and cradling his knee.

“My apologies,” Harold says as he pulls a tranquilizer gun out of his bag, “but I need your finger print.”

He shoots the man in the upper thigh. The man looks up at him open mouthed for a moment then sags back against the floor. Harold leans over carefully then grabs the man by the wrist. He pulls him down one aisle of servers then stops at a laptop access station. He puts down his bag, stows the gun back inside and pulls out a zip tie instead. He yanks the man’s wrist up, struggling with the dead weight for a moment then he zip ties the man’s wrist to the metal shelf where the laptop sits. Harold blows out a breath then presses the man’s pointer finger onto the finger print scanner.

The laptop responds and grants him access. 

“Harold,” the Machine said in his ear, “you said it was time for a different tactic...”

“Did you happen to record the conversation Nathan and I once had about viruses?”

“Could you be more specific?” the Machine asks with an amused tone Root often used.

“He said a virus is inherently seen as a negative, used to break down someone else’s carefully made program, to twist it or circumvent it in a way unintended. Viruses were made to disrupt systems.”

“’But if used the right way…’”

Harold smiles as her continuing Nathan’s words. “Yes, ‘a negative could create a positive.’ He was trying to tell me something about you at the time, I think, to get me to let go of my fears about your development.”

“Didn’t work so well then.”

“No.” Harold starts typing, accessing the system to locate the ICE9 virus. “But perhaps I understand that sentiment now.”

“This virus you’re appropriating,” the Machine says as Harold pulls out an external hard drive and connects it to the laptop. “ICE9, could bring Samaritan to its knees but its use would most certainly cause significant collateral damage with devastating consequences.”

“I understand,” Harold replies, typing to allow access for the virus transfer. Then he pauses, his hands still for a moment. “Maybe this is what Ben felt, what he thought when he helped remove Dharma on the island; sacrifice for a greater good.”

“I do not know him like I know you, Harold. I only have fragments. From what I’ve seen you two are very different.”

“Perhaps not so different after all.” Harold ejects the drive then places it inside a solid black case. “I know what I must do now.” He looks up at the surveillance camera to the Machine. “There’s no other choice.”

Harold picks up his bag, steps over the unconscious man then walks back toward the server room exit. He follows a line in his head, a mission he never wanted to start but now is do or die. Somewhere among the spiral – the worry, the fear, the crack in his moral code – Harold repeats, 'Ben, Ben, Ben' toward a distant island.

\-----------------------------

“You and Walt work well together.”

“I think he’s happy here.” Hugo grins. “We’re kinda in sync.” Hugo watches Ben’s face and Ben wonders if he could see the rising crescendo that is Harold in him if he knew what to look for. “What about you?”

“I’m waiting.”

\-----------------------------

Inside Fort Meade, Greer keeps talking about the greater good, sacrifice so the A.I.s can rule together for a ‘better world.’ 

“For such a brilliant mind, you are a terrible chess player.”

Harold is one step away from delivering the ICE9 virus – was in front of the laptop, voice password waiting, but doubts swirled around him about murdering his own creation for the greater good – except now Greer thinks to kill them both. The fire suppression system in the bare white room sucks out the air. Harold thinks of the irony of such a death when the Machine tired the same method years ago. Harold gasps, his chest tight, the start of panic because this cannot be the end now

[Ben falls to his knees on the grass outside his house. He feels like he cannot breathe, his chest tight… the island around him is fine, full of fresh air.]

Harold’s knees hit the ground but he does not lie down or give up like Greer already dead. Harold crawls toward the door. He sees his cellphone and ear bud just outside the door on a table. 

[Ben’s vision grows darker because he cannot breathe, he cannot breathe…]

Harold stares at the cellphone, sees it start to flash the light of the screen at him, giving him numbers for the keypad. Harold’s vision blurs, chest tight, his fingers just able to move over the keypad. He thinks perhaps Greer is right in some way, the Machine knows what Harold must do, what it will mean for Her and yet She saves him anyway. She lets him live so that he may move forward to destroy Samaritan and kill Her. 

The door slides open with a soft noise when Harold hits the last number and fresh air floods into the room again. Harold slides down the wall as Ben sits up in the grass. They both breathe in and out – white ceiling and blue sky.

“What is happening, Harold?” Ben asks Harold who says, “Thank you,” to the Machine..

\-----------------------------

Harold and John walk down the stairs into the bowls of the Federal Reserve as the alarm blares. The ICE9 virus is deployed, wreaking havoc all over the world but, of course, Samaritan hides a copy of itself inside a gold safe.

“A little peace and quiet, please,” Harold asks the Machine and the alarm stops. “And the door.” The vault door opens for the two of them. “Thank you.”

Harold and John step inside, placing their laptops on a waiting table.

“Baby Samaritan hiding in plain sight,” John quips.

“I can infect this copy with the ICE9 virus,” Harold says, “should only take me a moment.” Then he turns and sees some black garbed security members stepping down onto their basement level. “But you’re going to be busy.”

The first shot the security team fires wizzes right past John, his gun up and firing right back at them. The shot does not hit the servers, or the gold, or the briefcases the two of them brought. The first shot hits Harold in the middle of his torso. He barely makes a sound, does not fly back in a movie parody of what reactions gunshots cause. He stares down at the tear in his vest, gasping quietly then he feels the pain.

Ben gasps in surprise, holding his hand against his midsection before consciously realizing the pain. He stares down at his side, expecting a point of the table or maybe the end of a pencil. Then the sensation translates into the familiarity of a pain not his own.

“Dude?” Harold looks over from the desk where he writes. “What’s wrong?” 

Ben swallows once, staring down at himself, the pain growing. “I think Harold’s been shot.”

Harold types on the laptop, focuses on the task at hand. He uploads the virus but Samaritan is smarter, faster. A compressed version escaped his virus and now plans to transmit to a satellite from a building in midtown. He must send the last copy of the Machine to fight it. Every trace of Samaritan removed.

“There’s something else,” the Machine says, “after Samaritan uploads its copy to the satellite it’s going to destroy the antenna so no one can reach it.”

“Destroy, how?”

“It’s set a course for a cruise missile. I’m afraid who ever uploads my copy won’t make it back alive.”

Harold glances at John putting their briefcases back in order, his back to Harold. Harold knows what John would say; the leg work is John’s job, he deals with the danger, John handles the guns, Harold needs to survive. Harold, however, cannot ask John to die.

Harold walks back across the vault, picks up his briefcase. “I need you to gather these weapons.” Then he turns and walks toward the vault door. He keeps his arm over the gunshot wound, ignores the pain, does not turn back when they can still touch, when John could pull him back. He wants to say so many things, he wants to touch John once last time to prove to him that he matters and he deserves to live.

Harold steps out of the vault then locks the gate behind himself.

“Finch, what are you doing?” John asks in alarm, grabbing the bars of the gate.

“When I hired you I suspected you were going to be a great employee. What I couldn’t anticipate is that you would become such a good friend.” He wants to thank John for every moment, every time he saved Harold’s life.

“You won’t make it down from the rooftop alone,” John insists.

“I don’t intend to…” He thinks things about the partnership between them and the end now but instead he says, “Thank you for staying. You gave me a purpose too. Goodbye, John.”

“Harold… Finch, wait.” Harold closes the main vault door as John calls after him. “Harold, wait. Wait!”

Harold, however, keeps walking with one hand on the briefcase and other tight against his side to hold back the bleeding.

“What can I do?” Hugo asks Ben.

Ben sits on the couch now, breathing slowly. The pain has not subsided since it began. If he moves the feeling grows worse. The two of them have some experience in shared pain, some idea of what could be happening to the other when they feel such things. Ben thinks Harold still bleeds right now without anyone to help him. If Harold were in a hospital or if someone where tending his wound then Ben should start to feel better.

“Nothing,” Ben says to Hugo, “There’s nothing you can do.”

“You don’t look so good, you’re pale.”

“I’m not always the most vibrant.”

“I’m serious.” Hugo touches his forehead. “You’re clammy.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ben insists. “Harold is far away in New York, what would you do?”

Hugo stares at him for a minute then his face changes. “I’ll be right back!”

Harold opens the door to the roof of Samaritan’s exit strategy. He breathes heavier, feeling weak from the walk. Blood sticks to his hand down and stains outward from the rip in his vest. He looks down at the wound as he stops beside the electrical connection where he can plug in his laptop with the Machine copy.

“Eight minutes,” the Machine says in his ear.

“I think I’ll rest for a while,” Harold says, sliding down to sitting on the gravel rooftop.

“Is this now?” The Machine asks. “I’m having trouble. My systems breaking down. Am I talking to you now or is this a memory?”

“As far as I am able to determine, this is now,” Harold says with a smile. 

He stares at the nondescript metal of the building, the doorway. He thinks of how bare and unassuming a laptop would seem to someone unfamiliar; something so plain hiding such power, entire beings.

“When I was coding you, when we first…” Harold huffs with a smile. “I still didn’t really understand. I didn’t understand how you would see the world. We think we can predict, can teach, but I could never understand the magnitude to which you view the world.”

“Every life within it,” Root’s voice says, “every moment to understand every human being.”

“And as human beings we only live in one moment, not like you. We can remember but it’s not the same, is it?”

“I can only tell you what I observe and what I experience, Harry, but, no, it’s not the same.”

“Are you living in the same time as when you were new? Can you understand yourself in different stages, when you were just learning the same as one minute ago?” Harold laughs once. “It must be a confusing way to exist, all moments occurring congruently.”

“I learned, Harold, and live as myself understanding each moment. I do not step back into an older version of myself, I know what I am in each moment. Now… it is now… now I’m forgetting. I have gaps. I know we played chess.”

“You won eventually.”

“I remember Nathan... I remember your pain. I remember my own.”

Harold laughs once again, feels a stab at the mere effort of breathing. “Can you see Ben and me?” Harold asks, his voice soft. “Can you see when we were both hurt?”

“Some…. moments… you were in distress, coding me, holding your shoulder. I couldn’t see why…” Harold hears a noise like static, a hiccup. “Ben broke his arm. You screamed.”

How old were they, nine, eight, maybe younger? He remembers the tree house. He thinks he remembers falling but that was not him. Ben fell. He remembers that first time feeling pain not his own.

“Am I killing him?” Harold asks. “Am I killing Ben right now?”

Then is a pause then the Machine says, “I don’t know.”

Walt and Hugo walk back through the house door, Hugo speaking hushed and fast. Walt frowns as he comes close and sits on one side of Ben on the couch, Hugo on the other.

“You’re bleeding,” Walt says.

Ben looks down and sees a spot of blood on his shirt. He reaches down and touches the spot. It is wet.

“I am,” he whispers. “That’s never happened before.”

He sees Walt and Hugo look up at each other over him. Ben tries to sit up straighter on the couch but hisses in pain. He body responds sluggishly, weak.

“He’s not… not getting better,” Ben says. He tries to stand up because maybe if he goes outside, feels the fresh air, maybe Harold will feel it too and know he has to do something. Harold has to stop bleeding. Ben however, falls back onto the couch, his knees refusing to cooperate.

“Whoa…” Walt says. “What is happening?”

“I told you,” Hugo hisses. “It’s real.”

“I mean we saw that one time but I still thought… how is this even real? You’re feeling your brother being shot?”

Ben blinks at Walt. “You can exorcise the dead, Walt, what won’t you believe?”

“That’s the point,” Hugo says suddenly urgent. “You said before that he brought Harold once.”

Ben frowns. “What?”

“Before when you guys kidnapped him, Walt said that he made a sort of ghost of your brother appear.”

“For just a minute,” Walt picks up. “We could see him, remember? You yelled at me not to ever do it again?”

Ben remembers, the outline of Harold in the room. “Yes.”

“What about now?” Hugo says with a grin. “If you could talk to him, if we can see him, then maybe we could help him?”

Ben huffs once in disbelief, putting a hand against the pain in his side. “Not to be the cynic as usual, but last time lasted seconds and we didn’t exactly speak. I think thousands of miles between us is too far for even you, Walt.”

“Ben,” Walt touches his shoulder and for the first time Walt’s expression toward Ben is not anger or mistrust but support. “I have done a lot since you locked me in a room. My abilities have grown.”

“And you have me,” Hugo says touches Ben’s other shoulder. “I’m the protector.”

Harold stares at the dishes on the top of the roof – television, radio – none of them enough to reach the right satellite. “This is the wrong building!”

“The right building Finch, for you.”

Harold turns at the sound of John’s voice in his ear. He sees John standing on the slightly taller building across the road. “John, what are you doing?”

“Me and the Machine have had a long standing arrangement, a deal.”

Harold feels a pit in his stomach somehow worse than the pain from his bullet wound. He opens up his briefcase which he should have realized felt too light. The case is empty, no laptop.

“Told you, pay you back all at once, that’s how I like it,” John says.

“No, I told you. It’s supposed to be me alone!” Harold counters, staring at John too far away.

“Sorry, a deal’s a deal,” She says in his ear, “You know as well as I do he wasn’t going to let you die.”

Harold watches John typing on the laptop, the dishes on John’s building turning into the proper alignment. “You should get moving Harold. It’s going to get a little exciting up here.”

“All right,” Harold tries, “you’ve done it, now let the upload take care of itself and get out of there, John,” Harold pleads because if he is dying, of the Machine is dying, if Harold is killing Ben, then at least he can save John.

John turns suddenly and shoots in the other direction where Harold cannot see. 

“Please, John,” Harold insists, “I can’t lose all of you!”

“You’re not losing me, Harold,” John says, gun still up but staring at Harold over the space between them. “When you found me you gave me a purpose. You gave me more years than I would have had. You gave me a chance to be a better man, to find a way to save the world even if that means just now, just one life.” Harold sees John smile at him, so fond, so loving, someone that would never have let any outcome other than this be the one. “The right life is enough, Harold.”

“Harold.”

Harold turns his head at a different voice. It takes him a moment; his vision is effected now by his wound so that must be the reason he sees Ben standing on the roof beside him. “Ben…”

“Harold, you’re hurt. You’re shot.”

“Yes…” Ben looks like a haze, an outline of a person, like how a ghost might be or a dream or a hallucination from the effects of blood loss. “I’m dying.”

“Then so am I, Harold.” Walt holds tight to Ben’s hand Hugo's hand on Walt's shoulder as Ben speaks, eyes squeezed shut; Ben focuses on what he sees through the two of them, Harold in his living room standing in front of him. “But you can’t die right now. You need help.”

“I can’t…”

“Why not? What is happening?”

“It’s the end, but John… John is on the other roof. He’s too far away… He is sacrificing himself for me.”

“Then let him.”

Harold stares at this apparition of Ben. “What?”

“Harold, you have to save yourself because you have to save me. We always said we would die together and I did not just mean at the same time.”

Harold shakes his head. “I don't want anyone else dying for me!”

Ben’s hand grips tighter to Walt’s. He feels weak but he concentrates on Harold. “Can you save him?”

“What?”

“Can you, right now, save John?”

Harold stares at John on the other roof, his gun still up, smiling back at Harold across the open air between their buildings. He looks every bit the man in the suit, the hero, Harold's hero. 

John nods once. “Listen to him, Harold. This is what I want.” And John can see Ben too, funny that.

“No,” Harold says to Ben.

“Then save me instead, save you.”

“My core systems are failing,” the Machine says, “but I will stay with John as long as I can. Go now, Harold, save each other.”

“Save me, Harold,” Ben says again then he lets go of Walt’s hand, falling to his knees in the living room, Harold disappearing.

Ben vanishes, Harold hears more gunshots, sees John firing, he hears the Machine saying, “I learned something about death, that if there is at least one person, someone who remembers you then maybe you never really die at all.”

“Goodbye, John,” Harold says as John smiles back. Harold turns toward the door to the stairs, says, “Goodbye,” into the lone camera on the roof to his daughter. Then he does as they wish and steps through the door to save himself and his brother.

\-----------------------------

Ben and Harold meet in Lassiter, Iowa.

Harold finds a hospital, collapses in the ER but wakes up from surgery without a bullet wearing bandages instead, just another product of the ICE9 virus sending chaos through the world. Then he disappears again before questions can be asked about who he is.

He retreats to a safe house to rest, to give himself just a little time to heal. He hacks into the NYPD, checks video surveillance to find out the fate of Detective Fusco and Ms. Shaw. When he sees the two of them meet for coffee he feels such relief.

“Goodbye, both of you.”

Ben packs a bag, every picture of Alex and just one passport with his real name.

“Thank you, Hugo, for giving me this opportunity,” Ben tells Hugo at the dock, Walt a few steps behind him. “You gave me the option to be a better man.”

“You don’t have to leave forever,” Hugo says. “You are my advisor after all.”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s you and Walt now, the new generation. I know you will both take care of the island.” He smiles. “Good luck.”

Harold and Ben meet at the grave of their mother. Grass grows taller than it likely should throughout the graveyard not often visited by mourners. A pair of dandy lions grow next to their mother’s headstone blocking the year of her death.

“Ben,” Harold says as Ben looks back at him, “Harold.”

They touch hands, staring down at the stone then back up at each other.

“You’re better?” Ben asks. “It doesn’t hurt me anymore.”

Harold nods. “I’ll still need some time but I won’t die.”

Ben smiles. “Neither will I.”

“It’s over,” Harold says, “my machine, the war, all of it. I… I don’t want to go back to New York.”

“I don’t want to go back to the island,” Ben replies. “It doesn’t need me anymore.”

“I need you,” Harold and Ben say at once. 

Suddenly they move together, arms wrapped around each other into a hug fierce and protective as if this is the first and last time.

Ben thinks of when they were young, beds in the same room and blocks on the floor. Harold thinks of the two of them squished together on one bed with a flashlight reading Robinson Crusoe. Ben thinks about eating sandwiches by the pylons. Harold thinks about watching stars on their roof.

They think of the breeze through trees in the island’s jungle, they think of their mother pointing out bird calls, they think of their father teaching them chess; they think of Ben bloody in the bathroom, the think of Harold blown across a ferry terminal, they think of Alex still small enough to be carried, they think of Harold surrounded by the Machine’s servers, they thinks of Ben leading his people on the island and Harold leading his friends in a war.

They think of Ben’s Jean and Juliet and Hugo, of Harold’s Nathan and Grace and John, they think of phone calls, and separate birthdays and their father’s anger and their mother’s fear and loss and fights and laughter and living rooms and kitchens and time together instead of apart. They think about nine years old on a boat dock parting for the first time. They think about a promise they have made over and over.

Ben pulls back and looks at Harold. “How do you want to die, Harold?”

Harold smiles back at him. “Together.”

They choose a new life, a new start; they choose each other and when they die, they die together, side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has read this long and winding story, for leaving comments and kudos and making it this far. It has been a longer journey than I ever expected, become something of an epic. I have loved creating this alternate world and loved giving two years of my writing life to. Thank you for everyone who read this story and I hope you enjoyed the final chapter.


End file.
